All in a Name
by Late to the Party
Summary: My very first fic - a Baldur's Gate AU novelisation. Focuses on lesser known non-joinable characters. A lone elf makes his way through the chaos that threatens the Sword Coast, finding unlikely allies in unlikely places. But all alliances have their cost, and that cost goes both ways. Written in 2005.
1. Beginnings, part 1

_Beginnings, of a Sort_

Pushing back his cloak's hood, the youth paused, then stepped through the gate. Stepping forth into the bright sunlight, a smile creased the edges of his mouth. The sight before him was a welcome one; familiar stone walls towering five stories high… The converted keep with its first story entrance never failed to impress him as a formidable bastion, which was as well given the trouble beyond its walls. Once, it had been a temple stronghold dedicated to the dark lord of murder, but those days were long gone and now it served those descendants it had once preyed upon. With its fall, another temple had been erected beside it, paying homage to other, better deities. It was good to know that such a place of darkness could become a place of refuge and light.

Scanning the courtyard, he caught sight of the cow pen, the few houses dotted around the walls and the old shrine to the side. Behind him, under the shadow of the arch, he heard the guards muttering and chuckled inwardly; they saw many strange travellers, and he stood out no more than the next elf.

The grass was green and the skies were blue, and the flagstones grey – just as he remembered. Spring had left its mark. Although last time had been overcast, the dull evening turning to stormy night. By morning it had cleared up, leaving the grass fresh with dew, later drying out – much like this morning. Not so much as a breeze; only the scent of the livestock and unwashed peasants that scurried about their everyday tasks, the odd sauntering guard and occasional traveller. Most were inside, probably sleeping off the past night's drink, breaking their late fast, or had already left. This time of morning, so close to noon, was not the most usual of times to resume a long journey, after all.

He stopped and inhaled, now firmly upwind of the cows. A hot meal would be good, even if it was an affair of stew and bread; better than travel rations. Ascending the creaking wooden stairs, he straightened his cowled robes and stepped into the hall.

It was not the barrage of sights and scents that assaulted his senses, nor the noise so prevalent the last time that greeted, but rather, the quiet scuffle of feet that greeted him, as the maids prepared the tables, clearing dishes and tending to customers. All trace of the last night had been erased, except for the faint whiff of ale soaked into the musty floorboards. Nothing but an open window and through draft could clear the stuffiness, but what was an inn without familiar scents? Even the stables out back seemed to add to the welcome of a hearth. Of which, he noticed through the open kitchen door, only one was going, slowly spit roasting some elk or other.

Save by all but the patron in the corner, the old man still deep in his tankard, his quiet step went unheard. Even the barkeep seemed preoccupied, polishing mugs with a just 'off-clean' rag – by his standards; others bar all the most prissy would have labelled it as 'more than acceptable'. What did that say about him? Not that he was adverse to eating off their tableware. Ah, and the barkeep looked up; a harsh stare followed by a slight tilt, barely a nod. Mild annoyance at being caught off guard? No matter; he returned the man's greeting in kind. Watching as the barman gestured to a maid, he waited patiently as words were hushed exchanged and she came to greet him.

"Seat yerself wherever ye wish, sir."

Daintily, the girl bobbed her head with a welcoming smile; she would have caught the eye of many: blue eyed, buxom muddied-straw blonde in serving dress half a size too small, white over brown, and fair to match, blemished by only a small scattering of dimples. A touch overweight, but that was her build; more than enough to be overlooked given her youth. She spoke again, barely without pause, as she took him in.

"I'll be with ye in a moment sir, if it's a meal yer after. Fer a room, please speak ta the proprietor an' Alissa'll show ye to it."

"My thanks," He answered, allowing his eyes to warm, rather than grace her with an icy stare of the aloofness so many associated with his kin. 'Proprietor' had been for his sake, trying, at least, for a semblance of education. This one was quite clearly a farm girl, perhaps from the region of Beregost, rather than city born and bred. "A room would be welcome, but a meal more so. If I may…?"

Indicating a table close to the stairs, he followed her over and seated himself. Noting her glance away as she caught sight of his pommel, he assured her in mild tones, "I'll cause no trouble."

"Uh, sir, you really should put that in the strongbox…"

"And this?"

He held up a shorter blade, more a long dagger than a knife, "If you wish I surrender my arms I will, but I would prefer to keep them locked beside my bed, though I request to keep my satchel on me. Is that is acceptable?"

The warmth of his words swayed her, her hesitation dissipating with her nod. "As ye wish sir, but I'll ask ye ta do so as soon as yer meal is done." Chewing her lip, she added firmly, "An'll the proprietor be watchin' ye, so that ye know."

"I expect no less; brawling is strictly forbidden within the confines of any respectable inn."

"Just so," She smiled in approval, "What may I get ye?"

"What fare you have to offer is fine; if there is stew from last night…?"

"An' ye'll be wanting wine with that, sir? I'm afraid our choices are a bit limited this tenday what with trade being disrupted…"

"Ale will do, or mead, if you have it."

"And what room would ye like? Most of our accommodations are full."

"Whatever room you have that I may rest in alone and undisturbed in. My needs are few." Flashing her a smile, he added, "When one has travelled the roads, one soon learns to appreciate even the most modest of furnishings."

"All our rooms have fresh linen an' a single room can be found. Third floor, fifth on the right be vacant. Nice 'an quiet fer ye."

"You have my thanks. I will stay but for one night and be out your way soon enough."

"Then that'll be six copper and two silver."

Watching her leave, the elf adjusted his scabbard and satchel, smoothing out his cloak and robes. Being choked by one's own hood was never pleasant. He heard the tread of soft-soled boots long before the man spoke.

"Greetings, stranger. Don't believe we've met. Mind if I join you?"

Looking up, he was met with the sight of a dark haired man, clean shaven but for a triangular goatee and moustache, both neatly trimmed to perfection. Black robes accompanied his narrow frame – narrow for a human –, tailor-made to a fine cut of silk.

"Not at all," He invited, masking his wariness, "Conversation is always welcome."

"Name's Tarnesh," Astute eyes, as black as the man's robe, observed, "I see you're dressed much like me; I notice you've a sword. Might I ask how you fight in robes?"

"The same way a lady rides: with delicacy."

"But of course," Tarnesh's smile never left his face, "You seem familiar, somehow. Have we met before?"

"Perhaps," The elf inclined his head, "They say that travellers often feel kinship with one another; the call of the road."

"Ah, I wouldn't know. Not a great fan of journeys myself." He looked around, "You're alone? The roads rarely seem safe these days; I'd leave here myself, but ah… well, you know how it is. It is better to face the wilds, than to brave the roads, they say."

"Indeed, and aye, though if you're looking for companions, no doubt a caravan shall be along shortly."

"Ah, that's just it, see. None of the caravans are making it through, even though they say the iron is flowing again. Bandits plague this region like flies on corpse."

"An unpleasant image, but perhaps apt. Is it true the towns here are dying? With trade drying up, it can only be a matter of time, but surely some must make it through. Baldur's Gate is far from landlocked, and iron cannot be the only lifeblood of this region?"

"Aside from the Candlekeep monastery up the coast and their books, the only other trade around here is iron, unless you count the farmers and the townsfolk's wares. There's little from here down to the Cloudpeaks. Say, I don't believe I caught where you were from?"

"I am an elf," Aware of his use of the sardonic, his half-smile was deliberately secretive, "Surely that is enough to place me not from around here?"

"And yet you are spoken as a local…" Tarnesh stroked his beard, "Travel much?"

"All these questions, why, I might believe you were interrogating me!" His half-smile cracked wider, his eyes falsely warm, "Ah, and I believe lunch is here. Did you wish for anything?"

"No, thank you. I feel like a stroll. Perhaps we shall continue our conversation later, friend."

"I would like that."

"I never caught your name–"

"Aurifyr."

The lie came easily as the two shook hands; Tarnesh was no warrior to grip forearms with. Watching as the silk robed man left, the elf frowned to himself. The snake was entirely too oily. He would have to watch him.


	2. Beginnings, part 2

"So you met Tarnesh?" The maid from before interrupted his musing with a board smile as she set a tray down on the crotchety table. Leaning over, she whispered, "I saw you talking with him; he's quite the charmer, isn't he! Not hard on the eyes either, but a keeps himself a little close to the comforts of home, if you know what I mean."

"Ah, I had noticed."

"Not that you're hard on the eyes yourself," She continued blithely, "being one of the fairfolk an' all." Realising what she'd just said, she blushed and stammered, "'scue me sir, I meant no offence. Sometimes me tongue just runs away with me…"

Genuinely amused, he smiled, "None taken; on the contrary, it is a high compliment. I could say the same of you; my eyes are blessed in an otherwise dull hall."

"Yer so nice, why can't others be like ye?" Sighing wistfully, she shook her head, "Well, I'd best be back ta work. If ye need anything, let me know."

"I'll do that." He inclined his head, and waited politely. "Oh, there is one thing…"

"What's that, sir?"

"Any chance you could direct me to a seamstress?" Adopting sheepishness, he sighed, "Alas, I have little thread and even fewer needles and well, gibberlings clawing at one's robe does it little good." Chuckling nervously, he confided, "nor tripping over the hem and stumbling over a root. Trees that hide snakes, even harmless ones, are liable to startle even the most experienced while–" His half-smile was back, "attending to one's most pressing function."

Trying not to laugh, the girl could not hide her incredulous gawk, "Ye really tripped over yer robe? Serious?"

"I am." Solemnly nodding, his eyes twinkled, "But please, let us remain between you and I."

Giggling helplessly, she nodded, aware of the bemused stares she was drawing. Schooling herself, she promised, "Na a word. An," She added, "perhaps I may be of 'elp ta ye? I nay be shop-taught in the city, but I know me way around a needle. If ye'd like? Free o' charge, 'course."

"I would like that," Nodding briefly, he finished, "My thanks."

"Once yer done, I'll see ye ta ye room. If yer about in a couple o hours, I'll drop by? I'm Ris, by the way."

"A pleasure. Aurifyr."

"An' yers."

He inclined his head.


	3. Beginnings, part 3

Later that evening found him strolling under a starlit sky of pink, orange clouds blanketing a crimson sun as the last of its rays prepared to retire. His wanderings had taken him around the back of the stable; Ris had been as good as her word, and he had honoured his. The girl had even done him the decency of washing his garments, leaving him with only a loose shirt and worn tunic. He had borrowed an garish pair of pantaloons rather than stitch together a new pair. Discarded by their previous owner for a supposed tear in them, supposedly the man had left in such a rage he had forgotten to take them.

Feeling more like a eyesore and less like an elf, he began to wonder if he should have insisted on an older pair. Ris had been insistent though, and he had yielded graciously. Already, he had had to disentangle himself from a stream of compliments to do with how they hugged his figure, all be it from the drunk lying in the stable loft, and from the suppressed giggles of the other maids, haughty stares of the noblewomen and that fawning dandy pestering him incessantly on what a delight it was to finally see someone as well attired. 'Foreshadow' of Waterdeep the fop's name was; humans and their names…

Shaking his head, he was glad to have got away and finally found some peace. A chance to gaze at the stars and wonder what sign they would provide for him to ponder over. No chanters and their dull monotones _here_ at least. There was much to think on. Ever since that night… he shook his head a second time, forcing himself to focus on other thoughts. He had come far since then, perhaps not as far in terms of distance, but everything had changed. Sacrifices… had been made, many, more than he liked to admit, but that was the burden he had chosen to bear.

His wandering had taken him to Nashkel and beyond; the bards would sing of battling ogres, half ogres, of truly terrible shadow fiends – more impressive than kobolds and gibberlings – spin tales of a mighty warrior, or had it been a mage? A powerful priest of whichever god struck their fancy; no, a mysterious hooded figure – had it been a halfling? A half-orc outcast seeking acceptance by proving his heroic deeds? No, one of the fairfolk, who spun webs from his hands; a follower of Lloth, cast out and burned for her spreading of envy and hate!

The truth was far more mundane. Already the rumours had spread, had grown, exceeding the modest deeds, the dialogue – the swift thrust of a dagger as he had twisted, barely avoiding the axe hurled at his turned back. He had not even drawn his blade.

The villagers had been baffled; amazed and overjoyed that one day their mines had been infested, and the next they were told a stranger had rid them of their woes – and in celebration, their mayor had arranged a carnival to visit for the next tenday.

What had actually passed was this: a quiet word with the town mayor, in the privacy of his office. He had approached, seeking answers to riddles he did not even understand. Questions left unanswered… still unanswered. At first, it had not even _been_ his intention to speak with the mayor, only that he had sought out work in Beregost and agreed to seek out a caravan for a dwarf named 'Kagain'. The dwarf had been none to happy to do business with a 'prissy elf', but had begrudgingly agreed. One job had led to another, and somehow, he had found himself agreeing to ferry a note down to Nashkel. Along the way, he had encountered a maniac, driven mad by the blade he had wielded. Speaking in riddles, by whatever fate or fortune that gazed upon him, he had guessed the answer. Not the answer either had expected, but one any lawyer would have been proud of. Overcoming the curse, the blade fell and the man turned out to be none other than the Brage, captain of the Nashkel guard. Fate seemed decidedly contrived, at times.

Upon realising the caravan he had decimated not only contained the butchered corpse of the oxen, but also that of his wife and child, Brage had been driven to the brink of suicide, ready to throw himself upon the accursed blade. Somehow, he had found the words to calm the grief-stricken man, and in soothing tones, convinced him to return to town. Brage had agreed, on the condition he went with him – and helped carry his dead. Had it not been night, there would have been a stir, but darkness had fallen by the time they arrived. It might have ended in disaster had the guard they stumbled across released his arrow, but stepping in front of the former captain and reasoning with the fellow had worked. Brage had put up no defence for himself, quite ready to die – even wishing it – and had not spoken a single word during their journey back. In the mayor's office, that had not changed – until the priest arrived and consoled him.

Over the bodies, the captain wept, finally breaking down – and being led away. Upon seeing the blade, the Helmite priest – Nalin – confirmed its curse and the mayor had agreed the thing was to be buried. For Brage, mercy would be shown and penance made, though the healing would be long. But for him, 'the stranger', a life would have ended and a second chance never given; for that alone, thanks were given… and a request was made. Proven capable by delivering their captain, the mayor – Berrun Ghastkill –, left desperate, pleaded that he would look into things. 'To save our town, and hundreds more lives; not just of this generation but of the next, and their descendants to follow'. Ghastkill would have investigated himself, but something about 'defence of the town' and 'losing Captain Brage'…

He had accepted, on the condition it was a favour; a private affair. The mayor had agreed, claiming even an investigation would be of use. He would be satisfied with whatever answers he found; he was not asking for anything more. Parting with a final cautionary word, he had been advised to beware the hunters of the region, preying on wolves and stray travellers alike; one scalp looked much the same as the next and who could question if a traveller went missing in the shadow of the Cloudpeaks? Thanking the man, he had kept that in mind, and left, now aware of all the other 'strangers' in town. Outlanders were viewed upon with suspicion here as much as any rural region.

Two days later, his purse of 'expenses' – a generous allowance provided by mayor Ghastkill by way of thanks and trust, had dwindled slightly. It seemed the mine was infested by demons, according to the drunken miners at the tavern. The initial hostility soon eased when it had become clear he was buying; elf or no, outlander or no, ale was ale, and as long as it kept flowing, the source did not matter. Every traveller liked to know the going ons of the roads they would travel, just as every patron appreciated a good tale and news of the outside world. Being well informed was worth its weight in gold – which often played to his advantage. Most of the miners information was useless, but older man claimed, swearing on his life and 'by all the gods' there was an old mine shaft leading to the underground lake in the lowest regions of the mine. Supposedly, it had been shut off years ago, and no one mined that deep anyway. The tunnel entrance had collapsed and was in 'wild dog' country; all the others had laughed him down, but he had been insistent. Slapping the him on the back, he agreed with the others and bought another round. Privately, he had taken note; the truth stood out from tall tales and he found himself inclined to believe the old man. So the next day, he had investigated…

 _…The stench of kobolds filled the air. The almost overwhelming darkness of the murky waters… the slime that oozed down the walls; almost alive in its depravity. One's mind could play tricks in such a place; despair was the greatest enemy… to give into such terror and believe oneself doomed…_ He shuddered to think about it, a place where the sunlight never shone. Entering it had been foolhardy at best, sheer folly at worst, but his brashness had paid off. No one would have accompanied him on such a trek either; leaving at dawn for a secret assignment? He had begun to question his reason and sanity as he breathed in the cold damp. Elfin senses were not human, however, and the gods had blessed him with keener sight than most.

The dark had subsided, no more dismal to him than a night under the moonless sky. Although slippery, the edge around the underground lake had subsided, not quite swelled by the coming spring floods. A month later and it would have been impossible, even if he swam. Nature had a way of boasting formidable defences, and this one was no less tough than scaling a sheer cliff face. Fortunately, that had not been necessary, as he traced his way towards the inner old mine shaft. Upon reaching it, he had been surprised to discover the plank-and-rope bridge leading across to what appeared to be a ledge. At this point, he had drawn his blade and edged his way across, with much prodding of the planks, and a wary eye for any kobolds. Chances were, they did not care for 'unwanted guests'. His 'host' certainly hadn't.

The inside had housed rude furnishings; the trappings of some kobold deity or other, so mutilated by the ravages of age, mishandling or the conditions there, it had been impossible to tell which. Feeling akin to a thief, he had crept in and found a vile half-orc snoring away in the back of the cave, scrapes of meat still on the bone scattered around. The stench was even more repulsive here than outside, hard though it was to imagine, and it reeked worse than a doghouse – which wasn't too far off, given the slumbering kobolds in the corner.

Passing under a drape – revealed by the air in the cave – left him in an alcove with a throne of sorts. To one side, a defaced statue held a poorly concealed niche. The chest stashed away had been trapped with a poisoned barb, he recalled, but anyone with eyesight more decent than a half-blind aged cripple could have spotted it, and he had easily lifted the wire, gingerly opened the lid, avoided the sharpened stake within – what had been so important? He had found out – and filched the scrollcase from within. Of course, in hindsight, he probably should have slit the throats of the sleeping kobolds and half-orc, but hindsight always provided insights one otherwise missed in the moment.

Just when he was just about to leave, as luck would have it, startled, he had tripped, dropped his blade with a clatter, for the half-orc awoken, demanding more meat be brought him, only to find his minions snoring as soundly as he had. Clubbing them in fury had served only to put them out further, or fracture their skulls – he hadn't stayed long enough to check and well, that was when he had evaded the flying axe. Reflexes alone had saved him, – and the keen edge of his fine steel dagger to whom he owed so very much and it really was a beautiful blade he appreciated very much – and well, the gurgling curses and the yells of their master drew the other kobolds, but not before he'd snatched up his sword, retrieved his wonderful, radiant, lovely dagger, and slid the half-orc gently into the lake.

It had only been a matter of hiding, and watching as a rather gruesome creature rose up from the depths and began to feast on the corpse that he had been glad he _hadn't_ swam. Truly, the fish that grew in the depths were deformed; demented Nature at its best – or was that at its worse…? He had wondered how a 'tree worshipper' would have justified that one. The kobolds had arrived, thrown stones, curses and shot arrows at the fish, but by then it was too late – or so they supposed. Not that he had stuck around, but slipped around back the way he'd come – just in time to hear the kobolds and their din.

The journey back to Nashkel had been uneventful, even being stalked and running afoul of a juvenile winter wolf along the way. Poor thing had been half starved, making him wish he'd brought back a kobold with him. Still, poisoning the canine would have been cruel, so instead, he had 'shared' his meal with the beast. A well-placed arrow had brought down a young deer, and taking only what he needed, he left the rest for his 'furry friend'. If dog was man's best friend, well, winter wolves were his; picking a fight with one was not the wisest of courses. The wolf had stopped stalking him after that, though it had watched on from a distance, as it had since it first had him in his sights.

Mayor Ghastkill had mildly surprised to say the least and thanked him profusely – both with words, a promise of his always being welcome in Nashkel, and several purses, which Ghastkill admitted, upon his pressing, drained what little was left in the town coffers. He refused it, but Ghastkill had insisted he take at least some of it. Taking only a third of the amount – enough to support half a village for a year – he would have settled for less, even a third of that, but Ghastkill placed it into his hands and would hear no more of the matter. What choice had he but to take it? – And donate a good portion of it to the temple. Wandering around with belts of money strapped to oneself was not the brightest of ideas at the best of times, and with bandits scouring the area, preying on travellers…

Of course, upon learning where the influx of money had come from, Nalin had refused to accept stating he had already done enough for the town! Unbelievable! A priest refusing money. Seemed these rural folk were as proud as they were xenophobic; 'charity' was frowned on. Indeed, the Helmite wished to thank him… something about his deity 'favouring those who show integrity and valour' and how he had shown both; 'courage and intellect are a gift of the gods'. Then he had let slip to the man before he could preach further that he didn't really fancy the walk back; did he know a place where he could purchase a steed?

Luck was a fickle mistress. The only horses were draft horses, hopelessly inept and would drain the town further. Walking it was. Beregost might have some, the priest suggested hopefully. His own dubious expression must have discouraged the man, for when he asked where the elf had journeyed from… 'Beregost'… 'Ah'…

So, he left town as he had a few days before – in the light of the dawn, only this time, to the sound of the assembling guardsmen, led by their former captain, as they marched towards the mines. The kobolds would be in for a rude awakening.

Of course, had the mines simply been held by the half-orc, things might have been resolved there and then… Fate, it seemed, delighted in unanswered questions, riddles and loose strands, pieces yet to complete their puzzles. The contents of the scroll case had revealed much, much more than a simple infestation. A contact was due to meet the half-orc resided in Beregost. Mayor Ghastkill had left him with one more request before he had departed – and a letter he had personally written to the Mayor of Beregost.

A second letter had been written, by Nalin, to be taken to the 'Song of the Morning Temple' outside of Beregost and given to one 'Keldath Ormlyr'. Unsurprisingly, he was concerned over the fact a rogue priest was involved – 'A danger to everyone', and the retrieved letter identified the half-orc as being 'Mulahey' by name, a 'devote' follower of 'Bane'. Nalin also mentioned in passing word had reached him of another priest, 'Bassilus' again of Bane, was terrorising the countryside. Could the two have been related? Nalin's letter plead strongly for an investigation.

The return journey to Beregost had not as been as uneventful as from the mines to Nashkel.

Before he could reflect further, he was interrupted by whistling; a cheerful melody of one immensely satisfied. With a smile that never touched his eyes, Tarnesh approached, "Hi friend."


	4. Beginnings, part 4

"A pleasant night for a stroll,"

"Quite," Inclining his head, he clasped his hands behind his back; the faux smile the oily snake wore now was as sickly as the one earlier. Was he truly so transparent? A poor reflection on humans. "The air is cooler here, even without the breeze, set so close to the walls."

"The hubbub must be quite a din on your ears, friend."

"It is bearable, though out here is far from quiet."

"I notice you're unarmed. Me, I prefer it that way. Out here accidents can happen – alone one has to take care of oneself, with no one to watch out for one… Say, I meant to ask, have you visited Candlekeep recently?"

Against the shadow of the wall, from beneath the overhang of the stable, the black robed man seemed quite at home. Stroking his beard into a fine point, he seemed to be studying him intensely. It would not long before they both dropped the pretence, he acknowledged. Eleven feet away… neither wore weapons, but as Tarnesh – if that was truly his name – had pointed out, robes were impractical. Adopting a light tone, he inquired easily, "Why do you ask 'friend'?"

"You are well spoken. A rarity in these parts."

"So I've seen," Shrugging he fixed his eyes on a section of the wall. No guards in sight. "Tell me," he asked, looking over his shoulder towards the old temple, "are you this curious about everyone you meet… or is it just something about me?"

Tarnesh laughed without warmth, "Few elves in these parts," Leaning forwards, he whispered, "and fewer still that match the description. Your time is over 'friend'.

"Gaze upon the face of death!"

Raising his hands, Tarnesh began chanting in a low voice – then stared. "You can't hide," he hissed, "you've nowhere to run!"

As quiet fury gripped the man, the elf encircled him. Unseen to the naked eye, the grass bent under his soft tread. Avoiding the flagstones was child's play; stooping down, he examined the ground for stones. It was a mistake to rush things, he knew, watching as the would-be assassin fumed. But then, it was a mistake not to watch the workings of ones' mouth… and to underestimate your prey. Loosening his belt, he quietly slipped it off, and stepped closer.

Tarnesh froze, his eyes darting from side to side. Leaping back, he pressed up against the wall, "You can't win," he snarled, "even if I fall, there will be others–"

The pebble arched, striking the wall. As Tarnesh spun around, chanting furiously, the belt descended, cracking down on his temple. He dropped just after the pebble.

 _Humans_ , he thought to himself, _would they ever learn?_ Pressing forefinger to the mage's neck, he checked his pulse. Crouching, as he re-materialised, he sighed. It was never pleasant rifling through another's pockets but it had to be done. Biting back his knee-jerk grimace, he deftly propped the body on its side and reached inside its robes. It was worse than he imagined; a filthy silken handkerchief lurked there and it took all his resolve not to pull back. Forcing himself to continue, he opened the man's belt purse; there, his room key. Strange, there was nothing else on him. Could he have kept it concealed within his room… or… he shuddered, he did not want to consider what personal hiding places the man might use. Still, something would have to be done…


	5. Beginnings, part 5

An indeterminable amount of time later found Tarnesh tied to a chair… somewhere. His first impression was one of darkness upon waking; and then aching muscles protesting. Flexing them was impossible, he learnt, as was struggling. His hands and feet had been bound, and his tongue held down. Seconds later, the hood was ripped off and blinding light filled his sight. As his eyes began to adjust, he saw the silhouette of an armoured figure, and in front of the torchlight of a hallway, the outline of a second figure slouching against the doorframe.

"He's awake," the first snapped; odd… it sounded… a woman? She spoke again; not the voice of a lady, harsh, conditioned… "You. Do you know the penalty for association with…"

The interrogation was brief. Observing from his doorway, the elf said nothing the entire time. After a few short minutes, she marched out, gesturing for him to follow. As he did, three men, armoured as she, stepped into the room with Tarnesh – the door closing behind them.

As soon as they were out of earshot, the woman paused and exhaled her frustration in a long sigh. Turning to him, she smiled and ran her hand through short, fiery hair, "Aurifyr, it is good to see you again. You have my apologies; questioning prisoners is not my most favourite task." She regarded, meeting his eyes directly, the harsh lines softening, "I should thank you. You've been an asset in these recent days."

"Officer Vai," He inclined his head, "I'm glad you could make it."

"I could scarcely miss it," She snorted, "Your sardonic humour does you credit, elf. One might almost mistake you for a human."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Chuckling, he shook his head, "You came as fast as you could; I appreciate it."

"Had I known I'd be sending you into more danger, I'd have sent an escort–"

"We were expecting trouble, remember? As it is, this place is guarded to a fault."

"Yet you were still targeted. I had hoped… the attempts would cease."

"Once you return to the city, it will be sorted I am sure." Suppressing a sigh, echoed by Vai, he forced his tone to lightness, "What with the events in Beregost – well, you were busy."

"Not so busy I couldn't have assured your safety–" She shook her head, "but you are right. Enough. So," She glanced back towards the room holding Tarnesh, "I have to ask – ?"

"How I kept him docile? Well," Laughing sheepishly, he scratched his head, "Any student of herblore…"

"I see you are a man of many talents." Vai answered dryly, "And you feigned drunkenness and carried him to your room, arm slung over shoulder?"

"Funny you should say that… well, I had help. Ris, the barmaid, cooperative girl."

"Ah."

He fixed her with a long look, "Nothing like that. Strictly professional, as you and I."

"Business and no pleasure?"

"Perhaps after all this is over, we could share a drink together – and toast our victory?"

"I'll hold you to that, elf. We'll see if you can hold your ale as well as your wit. Loosening your silvered tongue would be worth watching." Smiling to take the edge off her words, she sighed again, her tone becoming formal, "I've something to show you."

She was weary, he noticed, as she led him down the cellar hallway. Her stride was controlled and her sights fixed on where she was headed. She conveyed a sense of purpose, of determination… The creases and shadows were more pronounced than the last time. How long had it been? Only a few days, but their odd relationship, in spite of its unusual circumstances had grown. It was just beginning, but already they'd been through much and were about to embark on much more. He tried not to sigh; she had already proven herself an ally, and she valued his abilities more than she let on. How had it happened she had come to rely on him? Someone outside of her command, cut off from the city with a contingent to lead. After the trek to Beregost…

Vai stopped, glanced over her shoulder and half turned, "Everything all right?" Her words were oddly quiet; her pale eyes concerned, "You're looking more morose than usual, elf."

"Thanks." His dry answer was not lost on her, he realised; she must feel comfortable enough to tease him. Is this what happened when one saved another's life?

"Want to talk?" Blocking the doorway, there was no way past her, even if she'd not been in plate and brandishing a broadsword from her hip.

"I thought we had business."

"I can spare a moment." Fixing him a long look, "You look worried. If this – I'll understand if you want to sit it out. You're not trained like us–"

"No, it's not that. And worried? No," Smiling, he shook her head, "Just… thinking."

"Oh?"

"And reinforce your view all my kin are serious, dour and dull?"

"You, my friend," She chuckled, "after catching you in those golden pantaloons of yours standing over–" she grimaced, "–that man, will always stick in my head." More seriously, "If you don't want to – I understand. Just know I'm there if you ever need an ear to listen."

"I know… and I thank you."

"After saving me from that bolt, it's the least I can offer."

He smiled, not flinching from her locked gaze. The sincerity left more unsaid than not; her initial surprise at the time – to catch her off guard was unusual from what he had heard tell. _'Not many would have done so,'_ were the words she had uttered, _'and fewer still to put themselves in harm's way for an officer of the law.'_

"Actually," Lightening his tone, he decided to set her mind at ease; she had enough to worry about with the oncoming raid, "I was thinking about the first time we met. I never told you about my journey from Nashkel to Beregost, did I?"

He did not need to see her shake her head, "As it so happens, I'd forgotten the real reason I journeyed there – after all that," Chuckling at himself, he realised much to his surprise he was relived to see her amused look of 'oh really?'; "well, I told you about Mayor Ghastkill, Brage and the half-orc. What I didn't tell you was why I was down there in the first place; I was passing through Beregost, and ran into a dwarf – 'Kagain' – well, you know what happened with him, but what you don't know was he hired me for a few jobs. Finding a caravan to sign on with – which I did – then delivering a letter to the storekeep in Nashkel. So I had forgotten that, so I turned back.

"You'd never know it, but I felt foolish. I'd only gone a few paces when I'd realised, so I high-tailed it back – that is the human expression? – and was fortunate enough that the store opened with the dawn. Delivering the letter, I exchanged it for another, and was on my way again.

"Honestly," he paused to reflect, "had I not been only a step gone, I would have missed it – Ghastkill's letter was more important. In a way, it was as well I had, otherwise I might have missed the assembling trio–" Watching her face grow dark, he shrugged, "I _was_ warned about bounty hunters, you know. Given the price on my head… it was more of a surprise than it should have been. Not that they agreed, of course, and when three of them emerged – one 'Nimbul', one 'Greywolf' and the last whose name I didn't learn, the other two were two busy posturing and spouting poetry and 'heroic deeds' respectively.

"As it turned out, Greywolf and Nimbul didn't care to share and cleaved one another's skulls in. The last was so busy watching me she failed – oh yes, a her – to recognise we were leaving the road and entering dense woodland. Funny thing about that, folk seem to think elves just blend in with the trees. Not watching where you're going and tripping up over a root is far more dangerous – especially if you land backwards and launch a dagger at their oncoming throat.

"Trouble is, I er, missed. Fool woman was startled enough to hurl her axe at me, and well, rolling in robes and battling a broadsword isn't easy. I'm ashamed to confess I actually used a branch to win. It's a bit like releasing an arrow from a taunt bow…"

"You have a way of weaving tales." It seemed Vai was caught between chuckling, rolling her eyes and shaking her head, "You paint yourself as inept, rolling around on the ground, trudging through damp leaves and grass, constantly falling over, and yet, always emerge without a scratch. Tell me, Aurifyr, how much of this is true?"

"All of it, actually. I did trip over, and it was a sprung branch that won out." Eyes darkening, he frowned, "it would have been better for her to have died, I think. After searching her, I took the bounty notice and left her where she was. With the scent of blood – well, I'm sure the wolves gathered. Greywolf and Nimbul had slain one another, which is as well, as I found an elfin head in Greywolf's possession. A pair of emeralds too. Each carried the same bounty notice, and Nimbul held a second letter – one I handed to Beregost's mayor."

"I remember." Despite herself, she made a face, "Filthy business."

"I almost had a run in with some hobgoblins, but gave them the slip and you know the rest of that. Of course, it would have _helped_ if Ghastkill and Nalin had mentioned High Priest Keldath Ormlyr and Beregost's mayor were one and the same… ugh, and you think us 'fairfolk' are arrogant."

"You sound more and more like a human each time we speak, Aurifyr."

"Must be the company I keep." Flashing that half-smile of his, he continued, "It would have been easier had Nalin got Mulahey's deity right too. Did you catch any of Ormlyr's tirade over 'Cyric not Bane'? Count yourself fortunate if you did not. 'Stupid Helmites and their idiocy' is never a phrase a messenger wishes to hear."

Fixing him with a long look, Vai folded her arms, "Was this really what you wished to speak of?"

"Well, no. But we've spoken, haven't we?"

Her expression was one of disapproval and amusement; 'I'll pin you down later', it vowed. "For now. How an elf becomes so flippant from being so mild mannered and reserved is quite beyond me." Shaking her head, she refused to respond to the unspoken 'Amused you though', and stepped through the door.


	6. Friends, Raids & Dreams, part 1

_Friends, Raids & Dreams_

Inside, the small chamber's walls were covered with scrolls. One stood out above all. Spread across a table in the centre, his eyes were immediately drawn to it. Detailed lines… rough sketches, outlines. Vai no longer seemed to matter; intent on studying the map, he found himself lost in the scribbles jotted over various items of interest. Patrols: times, numbers, location… rough bandit headcount, tents, huts… general area. Estimated armament…

Hmm, no rivers or streams close at hand; no lake. Where was their supply of freshwater? Underground? They were camped near ruins, it seemed. An old temple? Fairly far from the roads, but…

"We believe that their leader will be visiting there in two days."

"Tranzig?" Glancing up over his shoulder, Vai stood close by, watching him almost as closely as he the map. Straightening, he drew himself up.

"Yes, partially. The other agents we captured know little; mere bandits from the camp itself – we'll know shortly what this 'Tarnesh' knows."

"This plan…"

"You question it?"

"Do you even have enough to storm it? This plan… to surround the camp thins out your numbers, even if they attack in squads of five…"

"What do you suggest?"

Vai's pale gaze seemed to penetrate deeper, then at the map as he pointed. Taking a step, she hovered at his shoulder.

"Here," He drew an invisible line, "Split them into pairs. If you position a few here disguised as bandits… and a couple of archers to take down the sentries…" His finger tapped the camp's south-eastern encircling tree cluster, "and three squads here…"

"You're thinking of a diversion." Musing, she drummed her gauntlet and frowned, "If so, we leave the southwest and northeast free…"

"Position two more squads, one either end, as reserves – bowmen. Anyone running will be shot down. If the diversion were to set the tents ablaze, many would mass to put it out… and our southeast strike force could sweep in. See, the main tent would be unguarded; surround it, and in the chaos the diversion could fall back and perhaps infiltrate their ranks. It would be risky though, but if we can capture the leadership, their ranks might break. If we take them midmorning, and be in position at dawn… most should be too drunk on the spoils of their latest raid to put up much resistance. Hmm,"

Considering, he stared at the main tent, "Is there any chance we could smuggle someone in? Have you any scouts that could infiltrate? We could poison the main water supply; there must be a well, or stream they use. Perhaps the caskets of ale, if not water."

"Where did you learn to be so ruthless?" Her tone neutral, he felt her stiffen, "Do not overestimate the numbers I have with me, Aurifyr. A full scale raid is risky and what you propose is just as dangerous, if not more so. If any of my men were to be captured..." Folding her arms, "They are not afraid of their duty; do not look that way. They are good men, but I am responsible for them. If they are captured, they will surely be tortured. From the reports, there are hobgoblins there as well as a band known as the 'Black Talons'. Even if," she stressed, "I were to agree – which I'm not saying I do – how do you propose we set the tents ablaze? Torches would be spotted, and magic is out of the question unless you have some hidden talents you're not telling. No, I fear infiltrating the camp is too great a risk; it could reveal our entire plan."

"Well, I would suggest clay jars filled with oil and rags soaked within…"

"I see. And where did you learn so much about tactics?" She fixed him with a sharp look, "You speak as one born to command. Are you militia?"

"Uh, not as such, just… I," Shaking his head, he banished the memories threatening to arise and overwhelm him, "I studied. When I was young, I had tutors who insisted… history teaches many things. Religious wars, battles… you begin to pick up on it. Look," Trying not to sigh, he all-too-humanly ran a hand through his hair, "I could infiltrate this place–"

"No." The word was firm, final. "The bandits seem convinced there is an elf bent on revenge stalking them and whittling down their numbers. So far, they've been unable to catch him, but any elves they do find – well, I'm not going to allow you to put yourself at risk like that. You'd never make it out alive. Besides," she added quietly, her pale eyes more serious than ever, "I want you at my side for this. You have a… knack for finding things that others might miss. Your senses are as sharp as my best scouts, perhaps sharper; I need them on the fringes to…" A smile devoid of warmth, "'Detain' any who flee. You are right, in that, at least. I only have four."

"You'd trust me with such a dangerous assignment? What if I turned out to be working for the enemy?" Twisting, he watched her closely, his words neutral. Studying his deadpan face, her answer was almost as he expected.

"I have considered that," a pause, "I don't believe so. There is much you keep hidden, Aurifyr, perhaps even more than you tell, but unspoken or not… you saved my life at risk of your own. The bolt that nicked your neck was meant for mine. It might have been an attempt to gain my trust, but I'll take my chances. And don't think," More lightly, but the warning was there nevertheless, "that I'm not watching you. Keep your secrets. For now, they're not important."

Hesitating only a moment, she reached up and gripped his shoulder, "One day, I hope you'll share. You've earned my trust elf; I intend to honour that."

"Perhaps one day I will…"

"My door is always open."

The intensity of her gaze lingered for a moment, the silence reaching almost awkward. Neither looked away, but finally, she offered, "I will consider your words. Your plan has merit, but we lack the manpower to pull it off. Still… if six disguised themselves… that might be enough if, as you say, they are in their drinks. I dare not wait for reinforcements and putting out a call for hired swords would only alert them. No, we must make do with what we have… I need every man," A smile flickered across her lips, "elf," she acknowledged, "I've got. You're just as valuable despite your… somewhat unorthodox approach. Rest up, tomorrow we'll need it. We leave at first light."

He inclined his head.

"And Aurifyr? You have my gratitude. Once all this is over…"

"We'll consider tomorrow when tomorrow arrives," Shaking his head, he added, "no use thinking too far ahead."

"Agreed," Her smile was one of painful relief and disappointment both. "You're wiser than your youth indicates."

"I won't ask how old you believe me to be," Chuckling in spite of himself, he wondered aloud, "how you humans always misjudge us based on looks alone is beyond me." He smiled, taking any edge off his words, "I assume I'll be sleeping down here, in these 'dungeons'."

"The cellars," Mock-unimpressed, she folded her arms, "will be safest. We'll sleep in shifts; there'll be no more attempts on your life this night. I'll be just down the hall; to get in here would take an army."

"Aye, which is not beyond their capabilities."

"A chilling thought. Oh, here," Walking over to the corner, she rummaged through… something. Back blocking the view, he watched, waiting. "Aha," She exclaimed, "Here, for you," A tight smile, almost apologetic, "Not quite… elfincraft, but the best I could find. Your own was damaged, so… please accept this."

Balancing it loosely on her palms, she watched as he scrutinised the shaft. After a moment, he nodded, taking it in his hands and testing it. "A fine piece of work. I," His mysterious half-smile flashed, "may not traipse through the woodlands as much as you believe – though more than I would like – but it is a fine bow. You have a quiver?"

"Of course," Gesturing in acknowledgement, she fished out coiled strings and a quiver, "Ten barbed arrows, ten blunt and twenty thin headed. Not the leaf-heads your kind prefer, but…"

"They'll see much use. My thanks."

She nodded. "Rest you well, my friend."

"And you."

Turning to leave, he took a step towards the door and hesitated. The unspoken question formed in her eyes. "I know… you have questions about me," His words were quiet, slow, "and I know the answers are lacking. Why does an elf associate himself with 'other races' so freely, so easily; how is he so learned and not from the city?

"I know you have looked into who I am and I know you wonder why I am hunted. You would know my enemy and what I could have possibly done to warrant such hatred. I… would ask for your patience; I am sorry. I know indulging me is not the easiest of tasks… and I know how trying it can be. I am not your enemy though, and I wish you no harm. If we ever cross blades… I pray we never will…"

"Cryptic. You sound less like a human and more like an elf." She sighed, waving away her irritation, "I wish you would just tell me."

"Do you?" The challenge was in the air, their gazes locking and holding. "And if I was to tell you, you would turn your blade upon me before I could leave this door. It would not matter I had saved your life. What then?"

"You are… a friend," This time, she didn't look away, "no matter what you are, no matter how dark your secret – I am willing to give you a chance. You've already proven yourself to me, and you will do again. No matter what it is that haunts you, you are not a wicked person, Aurifyr. It has been but a few days, but I have already seen how you operate; the way you move. You risk yourself for the sake of others; no matter what you might have done, that does not alter your deeds of the past few days.

"I saw your battleplan; you deliberately positioned my men where they would be at the least risk even if it meant allowing bandits to escape. An…" Her pale eyes hardened, "…another, a colder person would have sent them in blind, without regard for life. You didn't have to spare Tarnesh; yes, we needed the information, but that bounty hunter near Nashkel? You didn't take her life."

"If I wasn't lying."

"I sent runners to Nashkel. The mayor and priest both confirmed your deeds. They also say you refused the larger part of the payment so the town could grow and flourish. I saw your eyes when we scouted the caravan wreckage outside of Beregost and captured Teven; they were not cold, only fury and grief. The corpses… of children are never easy to gaze upon, but you could have turned a blind eye. It affected you; you're no monster. You've yet to demonstrate any malice."

"I… thank you. Your words… are kind."

"Whatever troubles you… you're stronger than you think, Aurifyr and a better soul than most." A pause, as she added more lightly, despite the serious note, "Try not to let melancholy consume you; fate remains unwritten. You're not doomed; don't act like it." The smile that lit her face was welcoming and warm; one of the few he'd seen of her so open, "I actually like you. For an elf… you're not as stuck-up as you pretend to be, despite your tall tales. I'm an officer of the law; I've seen much in the streets of Baldur's Gate. Urchins, pickpockets, thieves, thugs, merchants, swindlers–"

"There's a difference?"

"Perhaps," She allowed with a laugh, "an honest merchant is almost as rare as a friendly elf – my point is, you are different and it's no bad thing. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm tired. You," poking fun at him gently, "may only require a few hours of sleep, but us 'inferior beings' lack that luxury. We have to be up two hours before dawn and it's a long march through the forest. So, we can talk – if you agree to tell me what's really bothering you, or, we can both catch up on some much needed rest and snatch a couple of hours. Your choice."

"I've imposed on you enough. …Thank you, Vai. You've been kind to me. I won't forget your support."

"Yes, yes, I say the same of you. Just don't forget, I'm here – not just as a friend, but as an officer of the law."

"I guess I'd better not let you catch me doing anything illicit then."

"I'll clap you in irons and throw you in the dungeon myself," She promised, "which I'll do if you don't make up your mind."

"Good night, Vai."

"Good night, Aurifyr."

Chuckling to himself, he retired to his room, shaking his head as he did – aware she was doing the same. Humans – would he ever understand them?


	7. Friends, Raids & Dreams, part 2

That night, he dreamt.

 _The scene was of Beregost. Of Feldepost's inn; surrounded, as it had been the hour they had apprehended Tranzig. Mercenaries in plate, the gauntlet shrouded by flames fixed on their breast. Shining in the sun, they marched through the door in a column, two wide, three deep. He stood outside, watching, waiting. Vai was at his side, hair fiery as always. Four trackers of hers; scouts, thief-catchers – they lurked in the shadows of the trees, of the alleyways; a gesture and two went to block the stable. Escape would not be an option today._

 _She watched, her pale eyes intense as ever; worry, concern… the safety of her men and the success of the mission at the forefront of her mind. Clearly displayed, she had tried to hide it, as strong as always. He knew it wasn't easy… he could almost see in his mind's eye what was happening; the heavy thud of the steel-clad boots marching up the carpeted stairs; the pounding on the door, the arrest. The panic as their target realised he was cornered, as he ran to the window – stared as he saw Vai, and grabbed a crossbow, even as the door was about to be broken down. Levelling the crossbow first at the entrance, he had swung it around and squeezed the trigger._

 _Through the glass, the bolt had flown towards them… towards her. Long before the last instant, he had seized her, with split seconds to react, trusting in his elfin senses, his reflexes… the bolt had torn across his neck as he grabbed her to the ground. Tranzig had held up a dagger, about to end his own life, though determined to take one, last shot – he had been seized._

 _Vai had looked up, startled, angry; then her eyes had widened as she saw the line of blood, where the bolt had broken the skin – and where it landed, still quivering in the post. The post she had been standing before…_

 _That was how the arrest had gone; the first time he had earned her trust for himself._

The reverie filled with memories not quite his own; scenes that had not happened the way he recalled… a voice not his own, darker, foreboding. A taint from deep within. The dreams an elf should not possess.

 _He looked up; his hands rising, black, drenched in blood. Crimson too dark, too sticky, like ink, living shadow, like looking through tinted glass. The light had faded; the sun no longer radiant but dark; as if muted. The warmth on his face was gone; only the warmth on his hands, along his neck. His blood cried out, rising up, taking form within himself; an entity arising, a long… forgotten voice. His consciousness took a step back; as if watching through another's eyes, he watched as his eyes looked upon the prone body of the woman he should have saved. Blood dripped from his fingertips; the bolt firmly in her neck, sticky._

 _His mind's eye replayed the scene; the man at the window firing… the bolt zipping towards him; he span, snatched it from the air as it cut across, just under his jaw, just missing his earlobe, as his fingers wrapped themselves around it, his speed surpassing even his reflexes. Then… he watched himself, muted horror rising as he plunged the bolt into her; tearing through her plate as if it were nothing more than decayed cloth._

 _He felt as it entered her, her warm lifeblood spilling forth, covering his hand… flowing up his arm as he_ pulled _her very essence from her. The light in her eyes took longer to fade, even as her blood gushed out. The scent filled him; it was… ecstasy; he felt himself inhale, deeply. Slowly, savouring it. He could almost taste it. It was… beautiful; sickening, repulsing him to his very core, but… also beautiful._

 _Acceptance welled up within him as betrayal filled her dying eyes; made all the more beautiful by his treachery, the murder was addictive. Killing wasn't the same; Mulahey was nothing compared to this. Self-defence was dull, monotonous, lifeless; there was no thrill, no rush. The satisfaction he had not felt, the breathlessness as his heart raced – it was meaningless, but this… This was exquisite. Fire filled him; the hunger for more._

 _Better than the embrace of a woman, part of him seemed to whisper. Better than the slaughter of the town, as coils of blood flowed from him, rolling out as arcs of lightning and latching onto townsfolk and Vai's men alike; leeches covering their mouths, suffocating, snuffing out their lifeforce. But none of it… none of it compared to the pleasure in betraying one who trusted him; on_ preying _on her._

 _'You see',_ the darker part of him seemed to say, _'you were right; if she knew… she would not listen. She_ deserves _death. She may,'_ the voice seemed to laugh, _'even grow to love you. Fond of a killer; she is no innocent herself. Do you know the lives she's taken? Of the men she's had… even the women. Eviscerate her; do it. Do it for yourself, before she comes too close… before she learns what you really are. You know… You know and you fear your lack of fear; the acceptance that made you leave that night, defying fate as you did. You tried to escape, stemming what was to come. You know yourself more than you like to admit; the knowledge you posses, that you schooled yourself in so devotedly… you know the signs and who they point to._

 _'Already you have tapped into your very essence; soon, you will draw out more. Already, you shape it to your will, your unwaking mind seeing what should not be seen. You remember how it felt when you woke the elf; holding his head, gazing into his lifeless eyes, this elf death had claimed… when you woke his spirit in the netherworld, projecting yours and paralysing his. He could not resist you; you were like the sun to a spark before him. You violated what they hold sacred, defiling what they consider untouchable; that which they base their superiority upon, that which makes them "special"._

 _You cannot claim ignorance; you knew what you were doing. Your "kin"; how little they are like you. You wear their skin, their features; it is a mask – you know what lies beneath you. A lesser being would fear it; it comes so naturally to you, the acceptance._

 _'Your "mercy"; your "charity"; masks you wear, vapours over a veil. Your true self shines through, deceiving, observing; it is not the taint you fear: it is the transition. Deny it all you want; you cannot lie to_ yourself _. Untapped, unchallenged; the well of power within you – you are impatient to harness it, to wield it._ That _is what you fear; not your failure to master it, not your failure to embrace it; your fear is separation from it, your very core stripped away. You know of what I, your spirit speaks, this knowledge you possess._

 _'The prophecies are about you.'_

His eyes snapped open.


	8. Friends, Raids & Dreams, part 3

The hour was still dark; even confined within his stone cell he could tell. The rising and falling of the sun, of the world as it pulsed, the living, breathing trees – the sense of connection from the reverie faded, but his senses remained sharp, pricked. Something had changed. Looking around, he drew in a deep breath and focused, channelling himself to still. This discipline he had learned when younger calmed him; deep, slow breaths, in and out… in and out, stilling himself, quietening his mind, his pulse, his heart; feeling his blood flow through every vein, aware of his every hair, of himself. Like gazing into a mirror.

He looked outward; the scurry of a rat beyond the door; nothing alive in here, not even insects, only him. Releasing his breath slowly, he held up his hands and examined them. In the darkness, they stood out, even against the black; their outline he made out and gingerly, he cupped them to his face. No blood, no ichor. He should have felt dirty; filthy… he didn't. Leaning back, he rested his finger's familiar embrace. The third such dream. The frequency was increasing. The dream's voice – his inmost self? – was never accusing; gently mockery when it felt him resist. Ever instructing… ever challenging pushing him, praising, never promising anything beyond what he already knew… what he knew deep, deep down, as if unlocked.

He found the knowledge came all too easily; as readily as breathing, as if… before without it had been… less complete? No, he had always been whole, but growing… growing, accepting, learning, wielding; like the disciplines he had learned as a child, as he began to exercise mastery over himself. It was not the struggle he had found himself expecting; it was… natural. And that it did not disturb him… was perhaps the most disturbing.

Each life snuffed out meant nothing. So distant, so far away as he lay in bed – the human idea of 'rest' – it was as if it had happened to another; he reacted. The pains, the blood – the memories… in the night seemed so peaceful. Calm enveloped him; there was no regret, not even a little. Wrapped around him like his blanket was the knowledge he had killed, and the knowledge he would again, and he would go on killing… but it was _he_ who chose who lived and died; his will was what decided the outcome, of that which directed fate.

This knowledge would have been arrogance in another; in him, it was simple fact, he knew it as surely as he knew the sun would rise. To deny this knowledge… dangerous as it was was… to cut off an arm, or blind an eye. He could no more deny it than to deny himself. Others would label him as a 'monster'; it was simply… what he was. Did dragons, or ogres, or even the fairfolk question what they were? Did they question their very base nature; their power? It was impossible to deny such beings had power; what mattered… all that mattered was how they used it. Such as it was with he.

All sentient beings judged… and each were judged in turn. Life – death – water – blood – the sun – the stars – the trees – the earth – the seas, the streams, the rivers, the cycle of life – all was connected. Each played a part, had their own role; every living thing held its own destiny. Fate was decided by the living. Right… wrong… …everyone died. How they died, how they lived would determine who they were. A dragon could not help being born a dragon; it could not help it held the power to destroy those that were lesser in might to it. All it could do was choose how to use that power. This basic, fundamental truth resonated within him a second time.

It did not make it right.


	9. Friends, Raids & Dreams, part 4

Another hour passed, seemingly an eternity. More memorises rose up and fell away, slipping into a state almost as the reverie, but a waking one. Awareness coursed through him; his own primordial existence, transient though it may be. The acute knowledge the less-lived races perceived time so differently to the long-lived ones; yet even they were but for an instant upon the world. The marks they left shaped the future, but even those faded. Their legacies forgotten by the time the next age arrived; buried, lost… rediscovered, re-lost. Civilisation came and fell. The world remained. Death remained. Life remained. It should have been unsettling; depressing. Calm acceptance filled him.

For a moment, he felt as if he almost grasped Time; as if his fingers were almost reaching around to ease off the veil, an almost glimpse of what had been… of what would be. The almost glimpse that was so familiar, just off frustrating; the knowledge of the promise each time he reached he inched further, the tiniest speck, all but invisible to the naked eye unmasked to him. Possibilities, so many possibilities… the briefest snapshots his unwaking self caught. This – this was why he had left, where his journey had begun a new chapter; a physical chapter, not one of study, when his life began. Not the earliest memories of tomes upon tomes… of voices… of stone shelves, of… it faded, masked from him. His mind's eye drifted, rolling through a sea of mist; the way he perceived things, structured things into a form more bearable. The way he chose to shape things.

His journey began with his first thought; a new chapter with his first breath; the chapter of scholarly discipline, of growing, of learning, experiencing new things… to reach out and touch with the power of his mind, brought by knowledge: what it meant to _think_ ; to _form_ and structure. To _will_ things into existence within oneself, and then, how to will it into being physically. It was not always possible… but the power of thought was what formed society, of social constructs – the physical manifestation of the inward being. This, the chapter his life was in, was such: the physical manifestation of the disciplines he had learned to school his will with. This was how he could kill, how he could reach out and take life; how he could practically apply the teachings knowledge brought. To experience and to absorb that into his knowledge, increasing the sum of what he was – and if need be, to end the sum of others.

One plant wilted; another absorbed the light and nutrients it once had. Cycles, so many cycles ran through his head. Thoughts spiralling; so many tomes with so many viewpoints. So many beliefs; so many 'truths'. So many questions; so many answers that he knew without knowing. It sent him reeling, even longing for the return of the dreams; what was he and who had he become? Transience, primordial – what was existence and why didn't it scare him so? What was lacking that could complete the puzzle he could partially make out the silhouette of, not even the complete piece. Yet, the question remained: what set him apart and why?

There was a knock at the door.


	10. Friends, Raids & Dreams, part 5

Damp leaves underfoot; black of the trees against the night; the faint rustle of boots not his own… the distant orange glow, constantly flickering, casting shadows, outlining the huts. This was the sight that greeted him. The snap of a twig; he held his arm out, stopping the figure beside him. Shaking his head slowly, he held up his other arm, halting the three behind them. There, he gestured, watching through a break in the trees; his companion followed him.

A single man, at the edge – scout? Sentry? Or just relieving himself… The three behind him raised their bows. Quickly, he shook his head, waving them down. If they missed… shooting in the dark was never easy and his cries might alert the camp. No, this would have to be silent… quietly, he loosened his scabbard and handed it over, along with his bow, still unstrung, and quiver. Drawing his dagger, he held it up, and disappeared into the night.

He returned moments later, silently accepting his bow and blade back. He could feel their eyes on him; their expressions grim. They knew it was needed; none of them liked it any more than he. Holding up his hand, he commanded them forwards. The three behind fanned out.

"The body's hidden. You can scalp him later." His hushed words were simple as he warmed and strung his bow, "Now we wait."

She nodded, her features as unreadable as his. In silence they stood, watching; no one came for the deceased bandit. They did not have to wait long; in the distance, on the other side of the camp, an explosion caught their attention. Shattering the still, the hut went up in flames, the smoke rising in a pillar. The effect was almost instant; bandits filed out of their tents, many half dressed or less, brandishing swords, daggers, bows, maces… all manner of weapons.

"What did you _put_ in there?" Vai hissed, aghast despite herself. Her eyes were steely as she surveyed the scene, "That'll pull every bandit from here to Larswood–!"

"Nothing. That must be the supply tent – the barrels."

"You knew this might happen!"

"It was a risk." A shrug, "it's drawn them from the main tent. Let's go."

"We're walking into an ambush; if we fail to achieve our… they'll be on us. We have to fall back–"

"No. We won't get another chance at this. We need to move _now_. Retreat if you wish; I won't."

"Damn your stubborn elfin pride. Fine, let's move."

As their 'discussion' went on, he watched as more bandits rushed to put out the flames. A hasty supply line was being formed; there was a stream, within the forest. As he'd suspected ale was their mainstay drink, but with it was worse than useless against fire. With most of it gone, if they failed here, the bandits would increase their pillaging. His eyes narrowed; hobgoblins? More organised and militant than the rest of the rabble – maybe…

"Stay here," he hissed, waving that the three others stay in the trees. The bandit had been carrying a bow; roughshod as his arrows were…

"Where are you going?"

"Increasing our chances of survival."

Disappearing into the underbrush as she cursed under her breath, – he decided she was not a morning person –, he quickly retraced his steps and found the corpse. Lifting it over with his boot, he unhooked the quiver from its belt. Staring down at it, he felt nothing. The sight of the man's slashed throat meant nothing.

His mind's eye recalled how he had struggled; less than a moment, startled as a gloved hand covered his mouth, as the sudden kiss of cold steel bit into him; the spasms, then the stilling as the man had slumped. His blue eyes were still open; the expression of shock still etched. He could have been late twenties, early thirties; fair, dirty-straw cropped hair. It didn't matter.

Holding the quiver – the prize which could save his life and the lives of Vai's men – he made his way to the edge of the clearing and looked up. There, a tree broad enough to serve his purposes; slinging the bandit's quiver over his shoulder, he began to climb, heedless of his scabbard and bow jolting against him.

It did not take him long; soon, as he perched on a broad bough, he had his target in sight. Carefully drawing an arrow, he notched his bow: a hobgoblin lieutenant; it was giving orders amidst the chaos. Seizing others not of its kind, it bullied them into work, threatening to eviscerate them as it waved its broadsword. Menacing. Surrounded by six other hobgoblins, no one was prepared to cross it. The one that did wound up with a broken nose – _now_.

The man had been thrown to the ground, blood gushing from his ruined face; even from here, he could make out the hate in his eyes. Perfect. Tracking the hobgoblin, he pulled back, half way, breathed in, drew the bow back as far as he could and released, breathing out as he did. The arrow flew straight to its mark. Collapsing in crumpled heap, his eye a bloody ruin, the hobgoblin lieutenant had breathed his last even before his body had fallen.

His cohorts stared, then started braying their fury. The bandits' reaction was mixed; some stepped back, others more concerned about putting out the fire; a few drew their swords, tired of the hobgoblins' attitude. The two groups pushed closer, beginning to shove.

Expressionlessly, he observed, and trained another arrow on the loudest hobgoblin. By the time he had shimmied down the tree, the hobgoblins had recovered their wits and a frenzied bloodbath had begun.

Tossing the quiver to Vai, his expression said what his words did not. She nodded grimly, and the two stepped forwards. The sounds of battle filled the air; the screams of the dying, the pungent screen of smoke and the bitter stench of camp refuse greeted them. Before them, filthy tents, huge fire pits and thatched huts on stilts formed the heart; surrounded by caravans, chests, furniture, broken and unbroken, barrels, carts; troughs, a stray horse, cows, hay bales, even bathtubs – anything and everything that could have been plundered, nailed and not, carpeted the grass. Most of it was ruined, rotting and adding to the decay of this open sewer. Not even a palisade ringed the outskirts; no walls, no watchtowers. How many peasants' fortunes lay wasted? As they encroached, a bandit saw them; a young man, early twenties – he fell, a black shafted arrow in his throat.

He cast a glance in Vai's direction; she lowered her bow expressionlessly. Nodding, he continued. Two more bandits; from different directions. Each died soundlessly, one gurgling blood as it bubbled over his lips. Not that it would matter; the screams drowned out any other noise. Order had not been restored.

A man in plate, backed up by four others in chain stood out. Unaffected by the anarchy, he watched, waiting. Indifference and cruelty held his hard blue eyes. The emblem they wore was a talon, black, and the way they held themselves… hardened mercenaries, trained and uniformed, no mere raw recruits.

"So yer ta ones causin' tha trouble." The man in plate drawled, idly stroking a polearm. The hammer on its end was stained black; dried crimson soaking into the very iron it was wrought from. Those behind him held longbows, flails hanging from their belt. "I'll nay be asking twice fer yer surrender."

Both sides tensed; the three belonging to Vai had already sighted their own bows on the uniformed mercenaries, and they had sighted their bows on Vai's men.

"We have you surrounded," Vai's voice snapped, unafraid as she stared the man down. He towered over her by at least two heads, if not three; dwarfing her broad shoulders with his burly frame. Even the mercenaries behind him seemed short by comparison and not a one was under six foot. "I say the same to you: lay down your arms or die where you stand."

"Bold words fer a little girl – an' an elf. Be ye tha one plaguin' Tazok?"

"Me? No."

"Well, ye'll die all ta same."

"A duel." Vai's voice was harsher than before, "You and me."

"Na terms? Ye'll not leave alive, lass."

In the midst of the battle between the hobgoblins and bandits further northwest, and the growing fires, Vai calmly handed him her bow, and with drawn sword, advanced. The man did the same. Not even pausing, the usual circling did not take place; instead, he swept in with a lunge, the massive polearm hurtling towards her. Sidestepping the blow that would have easily crushed her to a pulp, she swung herself. It resounded with a dull clang, the tempered steel edge connected with the fire hardened shaft. Shoving her back, the man's hammer cleaved against the empty air, Vai stepping back. He reversed the swing without pause, almost getting within her guard as blade locked against hammer. Thrusting, he forced her to the back foot, barely missing her face.

Mere seconds it had taken; Vai's life close to being ended a dozen times. Watching every minute movement, both of the duellists and the mercenaries, he waited for treachery; their bows had lowered only slightly, even as Vai's men had mirrored them. Neither side was trusting an inch. Then, on the wet grass, he felt himself turn cold; Vai had slipped. Losing balance, she staggered, her platemail proving to be the deciding factor. Crashing to the ground, she rolled as the shaft's ironclad butt slammed down. A second thrust; another narrow miss. His hands tightened around his bow; a single arrow is all it would take: the platemailed man wore no helm…

Raising his polearm for a third strike, Vai's boot connected between his widened stance. Grunting at the sudden pain, he slammed his weapon down – just as Vai thrust her blade into his armpit. Even before the blood sprayed, the elf raised his bow and shot. The mercenaries and Vai's men did the same. After the brief exchange of bowfire had ended, four of the mercenaries lay dying or dead, and two out of Vai's three men would soon join them. One died instantly, and the other, mortally wounded, died before Vai was on her feet. Ignoring them, he strode calmly over to her and kicked the dying bandit warrior aside.

"Taugosz Khosann will see ye in ta hells–"

He never finished, as the boot of the deadpan elf crushed his throat, cutting off his last breath. Grasping Vai's gloved hand and pulling her to his feet, he said simply, "Let's go."

She nodded, pale-faced despite her hard visage.

Forcing their way through a gap in two caravans, they were greeted with several more bandits' backs, this time, without uniforms. Surprise and anger gripped them as they faced the arrows that were about to end their lives. Three fell without uttering a sound; the two survivors turned and charged, screaming war cries that died in their throats. Pushing past them, in the small clearing, he looked around. At his side, Vai muttered, "This is almost too easy."

"I agree; the main tent lies yonder. If there are answers, they may be in there."

She nodded, then hesitated, "You don't have to–"

"We've come this far. Come; your men have joined the fray. We haven't got much time. If they haven't fled already–" His words died in his throat as the flap of the main tent lifted. Without pause, he notched and released another arrow, striking a green robed man in the chest. "More are coming," He hissed, "Take position."

Ducking behind a cart, Vai signalled her remaining man to be ready; he did, notching his bow and sighting the entrance. Three more barbed arrows flew by the time the two humans were behind cover; the robed man fell without uttering a word. A feral roar echoed after him and a giant hyena-headed gnoll stormed out, the halberd in his hand thrice the length of Khosann's polearm.

Spying the elf, it roared again and staggered backwards, an arrow piercing it's chest. Breaking it with a swipe of its hand, the gnoll bellowed in fury and began to descend the platform's steps towards him. Even at this distance, he knew it would be mere seconds before the beast was upon him. Another arrow sailed over his head and struck the gnoll; Vai's archer had joined. It struck wide of its target, striking the spotted shoulder. Between them, they managed to fire off three more arrows before scrambling, Vai lying in wait. Giving chase, the gnoll charged blindly after the elf – and found itself crashing facedown in the mud as Vai hamstringed it. Her boot planted in its back followed swiftly by her blade.

Even as the gnoll died, it had served its role: two more figures had filed out from the tent and stood watching. One levelled and trained his bow upon the woman…

"Commander!" Helpless to intervene, Vai's archer cried out. The elf was faster; throwing himself into her and knocking her aside. The arrow zipped past him, searing across his side. An inch higher and it would have been embedded within his shoulder. Adrenaline negating the pain, his senses distorted as hands seized him and a plank of a wood filled his view.

A second later, he realised what had happened. About to stand up, he felt someone pull him back down sharply and Vai's voice hissed in his ear, "Are you _mad_ , elf?! The archer's up there and–" A cry sounded, a strangled gasp and a thud. "Damnit," Vai cursed, "keep down, you fool." Hissing, she shoved him, "A moment earlier and you'd have lost your fool head instead of Smyth."

"I can't shoot from prone," his words quiet, he shifted behind the cart's wheel, "I've not a crossbow. You?"

She shook her head.

"We can't assume your men will reach us; we can't stay here."

"If we run – we're pinned down!" Her whisper sounded harsh in his ear, "You can't challenge them."

"What do you suggest? Fire the carts? Sit here and wait for them to come to us?"

"…I don't know."

"Look away."

"What?"

"Don't argue."

She did, and he was gone; his bow left beside her. Not caring if his faint, whispered words reached her, he stepped out. It did not take him long, unseen as he was, to encircle the main tent. The noise had not died down; the fires still raged out of control. The bucket line had been reformed; at a glance, the northwest strikeforce lay dead: gnolls brayed and hobgoblins stood guard, cracking their whips. Order had been restored, but the threat of fire threatened to panic them.

Pulling himself up onto the main platform was easy; avoiding the creaky planks less so. Drawing blade and dagger, he crept, picking his way along… there. The two were standing still; both wielding ash longbows. Backs towards him, he could not see their expressions; only catch the half-smirk, half-sneer of the one on the left as his blade cleaved through the right's neck; and his dagger follow through into the left's throat. Even as the left half turned – into the dagger's path, – he brought his sword to bear, decapitating the warrior as he emerged into view.

"Vai," he uttered harshly, "Come."

Checking there were no more bandits in sight, he crouched and rifled through the corpse's belt purses, eyes constantly sweeping the immediate camp. Little. Ducking into the tent, he held the flap open for Vai, and the two were met with a grisly sight.


	11. Friends, Raids & Dreams, part 6

Later, he reflected on the events of the past day. Tazok, supposed leader of the camp's operations, was nowhere to be found. Their intelligence had been wrong. A full half of Vai's men had lost their lives; eliminating four-fifths of the camp was small consolation. The fire had claimed more lives than their steel had and the screams of those they had trapped within the huts lingered long after they left.

On the route back, they had encountered a returning taskforce, drunk on victory. Greeted by the sight of their camp aflame, they had turned and run towards it – only for the remainder of Vai's men to fall upon them from the trees. Later, she admitted, that had it not been for his elfin eyes and ears, they would not have survived. It was butchery, slaughter, not a skirmish, but given the cart the brigands were pulling – and the children's toys within – no one had cared. 'Scum' was what one of the men had called them, kicking over a corpse and spitting on it in disgust. They had left them there to rot; carrion for the forest beasts.

The prisoner they had discovered within the tent was none other than an elf – but not the phantom stalker Tazok so despised. Half dead from dehydration and tortured beyond aid, the exhausted elf informed them shakily of what he knew. All knew he would not survive the journey out of there; unwilling to take his life, for a moment, all three waited. In the end, the elf was prepared to take his own life, but it was Aurifyr's blade who finished it. The elf's last words were of thanks.

He hadn't looked at Vai as he walked past her. Her eyes had followed him, and nothing was said until they were outside. More letters had been found, incriminating Tazok as leader, but also revealing him to be little more than a pawn. More was at work, and the elf's broken words placed blame at an organisation within Baldur's Gate. The letters confirmed this, but also pointed to a second mine hidden within Cloakwood forest.

He sighed. Upon arriving in the Friendly Arm Inn, they had regrouped and rested, the men taking it in shifts. Bringing back a full three carts – two laden with chests; the bandit's plunder; they had recovered a good proportion of the bandit's treasury, before the flames had claimed it, – and the third, stacked high with the corpses of their fallen. They would have been hailed as heroes, had Vai not ordered that not a word be spoken of this; their brothers-in-arms had lost their lives. This was not a celebration, but a time of mourning.

The mood had been dampened further by the reminder of the taskforce they had annihilated and her words were met by grim nods. Not a word of it had been spoken, and the carts' contents had been secreted away in the underground cellars Vai had commandeered as their headquarters.

Privately, she had thanked him, telling him with a smile that he would have to stop making a habit of saving her life. After that, the conversation turned serious and over the table of maps, fierce words had been swapped in the exchange that had followed. Angrily, she had just stopped short of ordering him out; furious and hurt by his words. Her own accusation had stung more than he wished to admit.

Somewhere, he had picked up the human habit of massaging his head, and he did so now. She had accused him of cowardice; of not understanding duty: a selfish, blinded fool drunk on the throes of victory. Conveniently neglecting to acknowledge he had not wished his identity known, she had shouted he cared only for himself and his own glory. He was no commander and lacked the burden of having deaths on his conscience; his own honour was all that mattered, not the responsibility of the citizens of the realm. Naming him apathetical, arrogant and aloof, when he closed the door quietly behind him, an inkwell shattered against it.

Closing his eyes, he recalled his own words to her, warning her not to investigate and declining her invitation to enter Baldur's Gate together. He had told her to distance herself from him; that she would be marked, as he was, simply for being seen with him. She said the Fist would protect him; he shook his head, warning her not to investigate the organisation they suspected.

 _'The Iron Throne is too powerful,'_ he cautioned, _'We don't know how far they have infiltrated; you cannot even trust your own superiors.'_ That was what had done it; her indignation that her betters could be bought – her loyalty was almost frightening. Her faith in the Fist startled even her, he reflected, and it was at that point she had snapped he could _'never understand'_.

Then she had _forbade_ him from investigating the Cloakwood mines and they would investigate it officially, once they had her superior's backing and reinforcements. He had seen her logic, but argued that if they did not strike _now_ their enemy would regroup and word had likely already reached them of the bandit camp's demise.

The hobgoblins had been identified as a mercenary group known as 'The Chill'; their leader had been the hobgoblin lieutenant he had shot; the mercenaries behind 'Taugosz Khosann' 'The Black Talons'. Each had been hired. Vai had ordered the site cleaned upon his recommendation, already wishing to take the bodies of her fallen back for different reasons. The comment about retribution had not been lost; the less left to identify them, the better. With luck, – and a lack of skilled trackers – at first glance, the camp would look as if it fell to infightings, once the remains of the rubble was sifted through.

His mind filled with images of the battle; it seemed like a blur, the scenes in greyscale, a series of stills, captured perfectly by an artist; crimson spray being the only colour. The screams of the dying were reduced to a buzz; the din of battle, of swords clashing, arrows piercing flesh – it all faded. He recalled now, even though his waking mind had not acknowledged it at the time, that with each foe, he could see how close they were to death: their last breath before they took it. It was as clear to him as the sight before they died; or the sound.

Somewhere, within him, as his blood pulsed, he felt their lifeforce – ebbing, flowing; a tiny spark in an ocean of grey. Some sparks stood out stronger than others; his own pulsed like a star. He realised, as he looked upon his hands, just how easily the slaughter had come to him: they had fallen before him like lambs. He had escaped almost unscathed; Vai had been fortunate: her ribs were bruised, not broken. Her life could easily have been lost, but not for a series of near misses.

By rights, none of them should have been left alive: they had stormed a camp three times their number, if not four or five. His arrows had flown and struck their mark every time. His bow sang death; how easily had he snuffed out the sparks. It had felt natural, it had felt… right. Deep within him, he felt calm, as the dreamself observed, watching without comment. At the end, as the heat, the pulsing receded, he felt… a twang of approval. The dreamself had been pleased.

Vai had entered the room three hours after their argument. Coldly, she had informed him that she would not clap him in irons and drag him to the Gate as a common criminal but _only_ because he had saved her life and offered his assistance. She offered him one last chance to join her, and when he said nothing, ordered that he stay away from Cloakwood. If she discovered him there, the next time they met, she would arrest him. Quietly, he had asked her, _'Is this what it means to be friends?'_

 _'Damnit'_ , she swore, _'You leave me no choice, Aurifyr'_ , losing her cool a second time. He noticed her eyes were redder than usual, but chose not to comment. _'If I let you go – I won't allow you to be captured. If I have to leave you here, under guard, so be it, but you will_ wait _before moving. Return to Beregost and await us there, I will send an escort – if you_ must _occupy yourself, you can check with our informant. I'll return as soon as I can, or another in my stead. As talented as you are, you are only one man. Bringing down an entire mine complex is beyond even your abilities.'_

With that, her word had been final, and pausing at the door as she turned to leave, she finished, _'We leave at first light tomorrow. Farewell, Aurifyr.'_

With that, she closed the door. He had watched her leave, feeling the chill of remorse grip him. Humans… she was blinded by duty. Once she was outside, he realised she had not moved from beyond the door: her lack of footsteps betrayed her. Softly, he had spoken, _'I never wanted this.'_ ; he knew she had heard, her sharp intake of breath followed by her angry step striking the flagstones.

Before she left, she had disturbed the sanctuary of his room once more. Her pale eyes were dry, and she was as composed and as cool as when he had first met her. From the creases in her brow and shadows under her eyes, it was clear she had not slept that night. There was a chilliness that had not been present earlier, and levelly, she asked if he had reconsidered her offer. Tiredly, he declined with a single shake of his head, but when he opened his mouth, she told him she did not want to hear it.

Coldly, she had named him a 'fool', and herself for believing in him. She had not turned to leave, but stared at him. The disappointment would have stung, had he not dreamt that night.

 _'You can't protect me by wrapping me in a blanket,'_ she said, each word grinding against him. _'What makes you so sure you are more of a target than I? For my part in the raid, my head is on the line .What separates and makes you so special?'_

He shook his head, but said nothing. After a moment, he opened his mouth but she cut him off again. _'Enough, Aurifyr. I'm done reasoning with you. I was wrong about you.'_

 _'Because I care about you?'_ Rising, he had voiced his thoughts, _'Look what happened to that elf we found for infiltrating the Iron Throne'_

 _'Spare me. I've no more words to waste, elf.'_

 _'Is that what this is about?'_ Hurt filled his tone; quiet protest, _'Do you even_ know _–'_ He met her eyes as she refused to blink or break his gaze, _'that I am_ not _one of you.'_

 _'Oh, of that I'm_ well _aware.'_

 _'You expect me to behave as one – even this – this conversation, my reaction – you expect me to act as one of you. I'm_ trying _. I try to cast off aloof arrogance; try to think like you–'_

 _'Oh, you succeeded well enough. You're just like every other man; no, boy.'_

 _'You don't even know my age.'_

 _'Keep your excuses. You should have made them earlier.'_

 _'I'm sorry.'_

 _'Better late than never. If you truly wish to apologise, return with me, elf. Otherwise, we've nothing more to say.'_

 _'I… I'm–'_ He considered revealing it; what he was, _'I'm… sorry.'_ Hanging his head, he wouldn't look at her. _'You may be experienced in… such matters. I… I've never… even if you can protect me, what then? Will I be confined within the Flaming Fist? Will I be allowed to walk the streets? A single dagger or a bowshot from the crowd – that's all it would take. All it takes is one to infiltrate – walls are no security!'_

She had said nothing, her pale eyes accusing.

 _'I… I left my home. It was a citadel, filled with guards, patrols marching around the clock. The cliffs were high; no one could enter or leave without authorisation, without identification – the entrance cost was enough to buy a village or small town. Even so, two assassins still came for me. Two. Each tried to take my life, one in broad daylight; there were no guards to stop them then. No one watching; I should have been secure. I wasn't.'_

 _'I… see.'_ Her words were slow, this time, her eyes still harsh, but softening slightly. _'That was different.'_

 _'It is no different. If I come with you, I not only endanger myself but you as well. I travelled alone for a reason. Until I met you – I had no companions, no "friends". You want to know what it's like to be hunted; is that plain enough, in the speech of one of your kind? Never knowing when the next blade will come; never knowing if there is a crossbow behind the next tree. Every tavern you enter, every time you bed down to sleep–'_

 _'You rested well enough here.'_

 _'You know not of what you speak. Elves do not dream, but fear has clouded my reverie; ever alert another may burst through the door in which you stand, always aware my next breath may be my last.'_

 _'What did you do to earn such hate?'_

 _'I was born.'_

Her look had been incredulous, but then she had accepted it quietly, _'I know you have your fears,'_ she consoled, _'but… please, come with me. Aurifyr –'_

 _'I can't.'_ His words were strangled, _'I… won't. Not yet.'_

 _'What is it you fear? What is it that terrifies you so?'_ Persisting, she stared into his eyes unflinchingly, _'Tell me that much at least.'_

 _'I… can't.'_

 _'You mean you won't.'_ The bitterness was back.

 _'I don't fully understand it; how can I explain what I don't understand?'_

 _'Try. …Please?'_

He shook his head, then took a deep breath. Finally, he revealed, _'Whatever I tell you… may be tortured out of you. But… something is waiting for me there. Something dark and something terrible. Within your precious city, there is an evil. It is growing and soon…'_ He took a breath, _'soon it will consume all in its path. I will have to face it, just as all of you will, but… but for me, there is no escaping it.'_

 _'Why? Why you? How can you be so sure? What is this evil? Aurifyr, I can't help you if you won't tell me.'_

He shook his head, _'No one can help. This is the fate I was born with; this is the fate… I am doomed to.'_

 _'Listen to yourself; you sound deranged.'_

 _'I told you I couldn't tell you.'_

She sighed. _'At least tell me how you know. Give me something more.'_

 _'If I told you, would you believe me? Would it make a difference?'_

 _'It might help.'_

 _'Prophecy.'_

Vai's look had been one of scepticism, but begrudgingly, she allowed, _'Well, if you feel certain, I suppose I cannot force you to change your mind. I feel you are being foolish though.'_

 _'I don't want to lose anyone else.'_

That had struck her, her eyes widening at his grief, _'You're serious.'_ Long moments passed before she whispered again, _'Oh… Aurifyr, I… am sorry. I had thought you were being selfish… like… all the others.'_ Quietly, she admitted, _'I was wrong.'_ Ignoring the racial barrier between them, she walked over and embraced him, then lifted his head firmly. _'Stay if you wish, I will return shortly.'_

They'll kill you. He had thought, but said nothing; but she must have seen it in his eyes.

 _'We are not without influence; we control the topside of the city. Do not fear for me.'_ She had smiled, then added softly, _'There is still time to talk, if you would like.'_

He shook his head, _'Dawn approaches…'_

 _'I can spare–'_ The words died on her lips, _'You are right. I guess… that drink will have to wait.'_

He looked away.

 _'Accept this, instead.'_ Her kiss had surprised him, his eyes widening; before he could react, she had pulled away, a secretive smile playing on her lips. _'You really are innocent,'_ she chuckled, _'one day I may take pity on you.'_ His eyes had widened further, the idea of a human and an elf… _'but,'_ she placed her finger on his lips, _'for now, you have to promise to stay alive.'_

 _'I'll try.'_ He managed weakly.

 _'Good. Contact me if you need me.'_

He nodded.

 _'Farewell, Aurifyr. Watch yourself, elf.'_

 _'And you.'_

Then she was gone. An hour later, so was he.


	12. Cloakwood & Dagger, part 1

_Cloakwood & Dagger_

Cloakwood loomed. The dreamself had led him to this place, taunting, questioning, belittling his fears. Had he not been invincible against the ragtag bandits? Had he not slain all in his path without a single scratch? Only when he had dived to save 'that girl' had he been wounded; and for what? The drama that followed was pathetic. Foolishness. Attachment to a human that would die long before he? Was that what he was interested in; a 'relationship' little more than an hour's encounter in the span of his years? The affection, the romance that tore at her heart did not tug at his, the dreamself had mocked, ridiculing him as it held up a glassy mirror.

The mirror's face was black; one of dark liquid. The inky surface had rippled, revealing his own face. _'This is what you are; this is who you are,'_ the dreamself had commanded, its authority unquestionable. His skin had peeled back; fading as misty vapour before the sun. _'See the face of what you truly are,'_ the voice hissed, the compelling whisper echoing within his head. All that was left was his skull; a skull not just of bone, but of darkness, the eyes glinting, as if replaced by liquid obsidian. _'You are death.'_ Each word was pronounced. _'You are a god.'_

The dream had ended, but the dreamself had remained, its voice lingering, _'Do you still doubt the prophecies? Murder born of murder, the essence of divinity within you. You cannot deny your own power.'_

He had flinched, startling himself so sharply, the peace of the reverie was lost. _'See for yourself'_ , the parting words whispered.

So he had. Evading the guards had been easy enough; he was long gone before they ever noticed. Beyond the walls, beyond the grassy knolls and pastures that followed, beyond the cliffs and wild grasslands, the first trees rose. Without pause, he passed them, entering the invisible boundary. His feet traced their way around the roots, and low hanging boughs, skirting the century old trunks and treading deeper in.

At last, in a secluded grove, away from the shadows in a ray of sunlight he stopped, pausing to scan his surroundings. All but trackless, his inherent elfin gifts and years of learning to tread lightly within the hallways of his home left him almost without a passing mark.

Finally, he set his satchel down, he slowly unwrapped the object he had withdrawn. The head of the elf he had found upon Greywolf. A human's hands might have trembled, but not his; slender, nimble fingers delicately unwound the cloth he had wrapped the head in. Over the jar filled with a dour liquid, he had preserve it, and now the stinking substance dripped. He hardly noticed. Carefully setting it down, he placed it upon a large root. A moment's hesitation; this was sacrilege – against all his kin held sacred.

The dreamself had challenged him; this was not the first time he had spoken to this head. A knife flicked out, the silver tip sharp and the edge keen; scratching wards into the tree trunk, he repeated the symbols on each trunk, forming a rough circle. Wards that would alert him should any approach; it was unnecessarily, he knew. No one would disturb him this far; not the creatures that inhabited the forest, or any other spirit. He turned to face the head.

It was as being within the realm of the ether; the dreamself's domain. Greyscale filled his vision, and vapours passed outside the wards. The noise of the world faded; the warmth passing away. Chill filled the air, but it was not the cold of snow, ice or wind; another sort. The chill… of the grave.

The head was no longer covered with flesh, but was a skull. It's sockets were lifeless, but he felt… something inhabit it. Instinctively, he had sent out a call; not powerful enough to bind and hold it, but enough to compel the spirit to answer.

 _'Why have you summoned me here?'_

It took him a long time to think of an answer. The spirit's words had been tortured, as if each second was agony, but somehow, that did not seem important. Finally, he asked, "Do you know what I am?"

 _'You… called… me here to answer that?'_ No emotion, but the faintest trace of disbelief. _'You… are a son of death, necromancer. Betrayer of our kin; violator of what is sacred. You have defiled the untouchable.'_

"…That wasn't why I saved you."

 _'Saved me? You are a thief. You plundered my tomb.'_

"You had no tomb, elf. Your head was cleaved from its shoulders by the bounty hunter Greywolf. I intended to honour your spirit–"

 _'You called me to this torment instead.'_

"Where was your body left? Dumped in a ravine? Half eaten by wolves? Nothing of you remains except this, your head."

 _'You speak truly. What of my blade?'_

"Gone. Lost. I don't know. All the human had was your head."

 _'In vain he took my head for your bounty. My blade… did not choose him. It will be where my body was left.'_

"What's so special about this blade?"

 _'A moonblade chooses those who wield it, not I it. None can wield it without its choice.'_

"How can I honour your spirit? Who do I return your remains to? I am loathe to bury you outside of elfin lands."

 _'Your defilement is… of pure motivation.'_ Mild surprise. _'The taint has not yet consumed you. If you would, carry my head but it will do you no good. You are doomed.'_

"Go then. I will call you again should I near elfin lands."

 _'Your quest… is in vain. You cannot escape your doom.'_

Releasing the spirit, he felt the grey of the world fading; returning to normal. Before it did, he caught a… reflection? – a living shade of himself. Inky black, it was little more than a shadow, but its eyes reflected his: liquid obsidian, tiny silver streaks were the iris should have been. His flesh was pale; ivory and grey, his hair shadow. The vision faded, and he was left staring at the head. Wordlessly, he rewrapped it.

Innately, he knew he had gained more than what the spirit had revealed; he knew the sword's location. As the sunlight touched his face, he did not feel its warmth. The first time he had spoken to this head had been in a dream. This… was so different. He felt a chill run through him. This was… forbidden. This magic – how did he know it? He had never studied it; this was not…

Excuses, he felt an unconscious part of him say. This power was his, and a part of him. He could not deny it. This darker… power was no different to the other arts and disciplines he had learned.

Closing his eyes, he sat down, falling into a trance. The more… mundane arts he had studied he now brought to bear; casting his senses forward, he felt his spirit rise above his body and stare down, over the tops of the trees. It had been a while since he had scryed, he knew, just as he knew he risked detection. Exercising the arts was never something to be undertaken lightly, but even connecting with the Weave briefly was worth the risk.

Time… took on a different nature; viewing with such sight covered vast distances in an instant, simply by turning to look. The danger was remaining too far from one's body for too long; it was distance he gazed into, not the future, nor the past: the present. Nothing stopped, but there, in that moment, he glimpsed what he was searching for. A hidden fortification within the woods. He shivered and broke the spell. The Cloakwood mines.


	13. Cloakwood & Dagger, part 2

Before him stood a shade; not quite solid, not quite ethereal, as if charcoal mist had taken form, literally a shadow of its former beauty. As in life, elfin features defined her, traces of the once proud, noble being remaining.

Staring at her, he unconsciously brushed his cheek, following the line of his jaw. Not even death could hide resemblance between them. Despite the vestments of a priest, she might have been his twin, he realised with a start. Unmarked by the ravage of time, she looked as youthful as he, separated only by her eyes, unreadable and ageless. Her expression softened, as if seeing him for the first time.

"Hello, Mother."

His words were neutral, his expression guarded. Before him stood the one with the answers. The one whose knowledge could determine his destiny.

 _'Balefyr.'_ She answered simply, staring intensely as he had, _'You survived.'_

"Aurifyr."

 _'Is that the name chosen for you?'_

"No. It is my own."

 _'A pretty name. It… suits you. Perhaps even more than "Balefyr".'_

"Is that what you named me?"

 _'For your father.'_

"My father."

 _'Do not speak his name. You know who it is I speak of.'_ She paused, regarding him, _'How have you summoned me? The temple burnt down all around me. There was nothing left. You… how did you find my remains?'_

"You should know better than most." His expression never wavering, his eyes remained fixed, "That which gave you life also gives me life. It is that which allowed me to bring you here."

 _'You used your blood.'_ Her words were flat, then she smiled, _'Such a thing should not be possible, yet you have done it. You have grown well, Balefyr.'_

"Enough."

 _'You have questions.'_

"I seek answers. Many have been denied me. You were there at the start; what happened?"

 _'Your saviour, my murderer, he took you.'_ Answering simply, she might have been describing the weather; then her tone hardened, _'He stole you for his own–'_

"You would have slain me, sacrificed me–"

 _'Is that what he told you?'_

"No. I have heard it, in my dreams."

 _'Elves do not dream, Balefyr.'_

"Of that, I am well aware, yet within the reverie, my memories have been shattered; invaded, events that did not happen in life, in the waking world, happen. Everything turns to grey; as if staring through a colourless veil. Blood is all that remains, as if crimson was the only colour that mattered. I would think myself mad, if not for the knowledge I hold… and the reservoir of power within me."

 _'So you have learned what you are.'_

"Why? What could you possibly have hoped to gain by slaying your own son. A mere babe, fresh from your womb, having shared your body, you intended to slaughter me. I expected that of our dark kindred, not of the fairfolk."

 _'You do not know,'_ She began, _'cannot know what it is like. A god's will is more compelling than a gaes, child. Even a dead god.'_ Regarding him fondly, the beautiful elf reached out with her eyes, _'It was_ never _my will to take the life of my child. That you, born of divine origins – when my lord perished, my desire, my wish was to see_ you _ascend his throne.'_

He stared and for a long time said nothing. Eventually, neither breaking the stare, he said flatly, "You're lying."

 _'Am I?'_ Her look intensified, _'consider this, my son; a deity, of our kind, seated upon the throne of murder: lord of death. You know the history "The Dead Three"?'_ She waited for his nod, _'then you know it was your father who held sway. Imagine: who would stand before us? For too long our people have been idle, subject to bowing to gods less than us. The humans and their folly; you, you would have changed all that.'_

"Yet… you mated with one? How – how could you?"

 _'For all your time amongst them, you are still elfin.'_ Her smile was frighteningly warm. _'Despite any affections you might hold, you are still repulsed by such a notion. Set your mind at rest, Balefyr: your father took our form.'_

"There is no love in your words."

 _'He forced himself upon those he chose; brought them before him as his own, compelling us to slay the ones we birthed upon his demise in order to bring about his rebirth.'_

"I somehow suspect," His words held a note of bitterness, "the one who raised me would say different."

 _'Him,'_ There was no warmth in her tone now, _'did he ever tell you what he was? Which organisation he heralded from? Have you ever considered the reason_ why _he "saved" you? You are no fool, my son. Ask yourself what use a mere_ human _might have for you.'_

"You're suggesting that…" Hesitating, he stared, "Could it be true…? That I…"

 _'Why then, would he have spared you? What possible reason might he hold? Knowing what you are, ask yourself why were you never told? If you were, you would have no need for me.'_

"I…" Unable to meet her gaze, he glanced away. There was a sickening sense to her words, despite the disdain. "A… weapon?"

 _'You are nothing more than a tool. A tame demi-god to advance their own agenda. The power you wield, that you will wield, sympathetic to their cause. Think on it, my son.'_

"There is no difference… to what you want." His gaze snapped back, locking on hers, "You wished to use me to your ends –"

 _'Such objections are beneath you,_ child _. I wish you to ascend the throne of a dead god; I gave you life, brought you into this world. Such ingratitude are the words of the humans, not of our kind.'_

"You would have slain me." Years of resentment bubbled to the surface, "You were never there for me. The knowledge you hold, the years you could have spent schooling me, teaching me – the love of my mother – this and so much more has been denied from me. You are dead, a mere shade, and I, I am _hunted_ for my very existence. I am outcast from my kind – the humans…"

 _'Then let me aid you,'_ Her words became gentle, subtly coercive, _'You called me to your side for a reason; I can impart upon you knowledge beyond what you know.'_

"Why would you do that?" Suspicion filled him, "How do I know you won't betray me, the way you failed before?"

 _'You are my son; you are all I could have wished for, and more. Let me serve you, that you might become greater than the others… that you might ascend the throne of my lord. Surpass him, take what is yours by right; that which he would deny you. In this, I will have my revenge, and you will have yours – and more.'_

"What knowledge have you?"

 _'That which I learned in life I can impart; I knew many things. I can teach you of yourself, of your ancestry. Have you never wondered exactly_ what _you are?'_

"I'm an elf… what more is there?"

 _'Blessed ignorance; the humans would not know. See, even this has been denied you; knowledge of your people. You, my son, are no mere commoner; you are descendant of the Eladrin. The blood of nobility flows through your veins; the humans speak of "high" or "grey" elves to describe us, yet they know nothing. You see, there is so much I could teach you. Not even the human gods,'_ the disdain neared a sneer, _'could object. You have been denied knowledge of who you are, of your true nature. This limits your capacity; will you stumble around in ignorance, or will you accept what should have been yours by right?'_

"If…" He considered, then nodded, "Fulfil this for me, and when I sit upon my father's throne, I shall restore that which was taken from you: life. Serve me, and you shall have a place by my side."

 _'You are greater than I could have imagined. When you rule, I ask only this of you: let me rebuild the priestesshood, that your name might be known throughout the realms.'_

"Then you shall be the first of my followers. But should you betray me…"

 _'You are blood of my blood; even here, your will surpasses mine. Your divinity shines even now; I cannot defy you…'_ Matching him, look for look, she continued, _'But you are still young; still weak. There are others who could snuff out your life.'_ She paused, _'I know of a power greater than that of any of the Children. A power that would allow you to consume the others, harvesting their essence, denying it to your father.'_

"How do you know of this?"

 _'I journeyed far and studied much before I was found by the one I was to call "lord".'_

"Tell me more of this 'power'."

 _'Not yet; it is too early. It would consume even you, but… you have the blood of a god. You have the strength to master it, should your will prove strong enough. With it, none could stand before you; even the very gods themselves would tremble. Slay the one behind this first; the one who brings the darkness, him who you fear. Do this, and I will guide you to it.'_

"You would have me prove myself."

 _'You misunderstand, child. It is not I you must prove yourself to, but you.'_

He looked away, "My… life should have ended that day. Now you offer me a means to challenge the others, even the gods. I… must think on it."

 _'There is only one question, Balefyr: have you the strength to take it? Your father took many; not all are as compassionate as you. The Children are not equal. Expect no mercy, for you shall receive none. When you face them, and you will, protests about "fairness" will mean not a whit.'_

"You want me to have this power. You want me to succeed."

 _'You are my son. When the time comes, you will challenge your father and win. When you are ready, summon him as you have summoned me.'_

"Even I would not be so foolish as to call upon a dead god." He felt a question form; half surprise, half protest, "Why have you not objected to my calling you here? Of 'violating' that which our kind hold sacred?"

 _'Why would I hold you exercising your power against you? You seek answers; your very blood is birthed of death. The essence of a god forms the very core of you: that which you will is by your right. You are heir to a god; who dares challenge you?'_

"…Leave me." He dismissed her, turning away troubled, "We shall speak again. For now, I must… face this coming darkness."

He felt her smile as she faded, the world returning to colour. The conversation had cost him more than he cared to admit.


	14. Cloakwood & Dagger, part 3

A vast lake; an island, here, finally, lay the mines. More mines. How many more would he have to trudge through? Alone, without aid, he began to question the wisdom of an assault. This was a fortress; a palisade encased the mine, running all the way to the bridge. A guardhouse – barracks? This was madness… this time, there would be no support; no allies. He was truly alone.

Rolling his eyes, he shook his head; it was useless to wish for an avenging elfin ally, a stalker of mutual foes… bah! This folly was his own. It was not too late to retreat, to fall back… to… Vai would have returned to the Friend Arm… she would be furious if he returned; perhaps less so than if he stormed it alone… what if he were captured? He would ruin the element of surprise, but… he was here now. Something… drew him on, compelled him… to back down now? It seemed unthinkable; utterly alien.

He glanced up at the sky; dusk was approaching. If there was a change in the guard, it would be soon… he analysed his options: there was a direct assault; storming the bridge… or he could swim to the island. That seemed to be his only two options, bar subterfuge or mystical means. Supplies must enter and leave the mine, he acknowledged; every mine had to ship its cargo, but infiltrating such a caravan had its own set of issues. The building would go too far down just to drop a few torches on… and who knew what lay awaiting any invaders inside?

That was another question: how did the mine the ore? Were the guards even human? If so, were they simply mercenaries, trained guardsmen, or simple bandits? No, such an operation would require a stronger garrison than rabble that filled the camp – or… did it? He had no idea of the enemy's resources… or even how many sites he had. Whoever he had gone up against… if it was the same group that had placed the bounty on his head – he sighed. The sheer scope of this, the power… he would get a better idea once he was inside.

Infiltration seemed the only choice left to him. He was there to gather information, not to destroy this operation; how could he destroy it? Yet to place it on an island… there must be caverns and caves under it… every structure had weaknesses, but rock? There would be safeguards against flooding; would it be possible to… sabotage was not his style, and even if he flooded it, what good would it do? The complex would still be in place, but it was not something that he could capture and hold… yet, even if it delayed those it served, the recovery would cost a great deal of resources – on the assumption he could sink it. Poisoning the guards and miners en masse was not really an option either; the workforce could be replaced – at a cost. How could he even consider reducing this place to naught? Yet, was that not what he had done with the bandit's camp? Ah, but he reminded himself, he did not go it alone then…

Part of him shivered; what would happen if he left now? Vai would still attack and any number of things might occur – ambush, annihilation – they did not seem to possess the means for an extended assault, let alone a siege. It would be costly… he sighed. A pity he could not find and loosen that wyvern that pompous Keldath Ormlyr had wished him to slay. That seemed equally as absurd; a wyvern's nest, or this palisade complex… bah, where was a greatsword wielding northern berserker when you needed one? No, subtly, not strength was key here.

From his tree, he scanned the surrounding lakeshore. Torches had already been lit on the palisade walls; a dead giveaway to any wishing to sight the site, but the chances of him stealing across were greatly diminished. His eyes caught sight of a great bear stalking across the white sand; it was a shame such magnificent beasts would not assault the fortress.

Surely the tree-worshippers would object to such a presence – of course, if there _were_ any tree-worshippers, he had yet to see them, but then, he did not expect to. It would be a greater shame to see such magnificence slain, he conceded, and waited to see if one of the guards would shoot the bear down. He half expected it to happen, and was a bit surprised, though not disappointed, when it did not. Knowing he was only delaying the inevitable, he accepted he should just get on with it…

Evading the bear had been easy, due to being upwind of the creature; avoiding the ettercap had not. What one of those things was doing there – playing 'best duellist' had not appealed, and dodging the critter's overgrown spiders had appealed even less.

Cursing Fortune for her fickle nature, he had lacked a clear shot and found himself with sword in hand. Tree roots and trunks aside, he had ducked and dived as many beaded eyes stared mercilessly at him, silken webs launched at him, and dripping fangs glistened at him. Flight up a tree was worse than useless; the spiders could climb and running was almost as bad – in the end, he had found himself surrounded and fighting for his life.

Many arachnid limbs had been severed and by Fortune's sister, Fate and her favour, he had escaped being bitten. When the frenzy had worn off, five corpses lay around him, and his breath rasped in shallow gasps. He had known better than to lean against a tree; always, always, the last straggler would creepy down and ambush him, so keeping his eyes on everything was even more important in a forest.

The strange thing was just how detached he had felt; there had been little sense of danger, despite the fury of his steel… the carrion would draw other predators and he had left, pausing only to retrieve his arrows and stab them into the spiders' venom sacks. In that, the unwelcome encounter had been an unexpected blessing… - and now, he stood facing the bridge. Tonight, there was no moon, and the palisade gates were barred. Scaling the roughly-worked logs was not his idea of 'fun', but short of banging on the gate, he couldn't see another way in. So he had.

The logs themselves had been sharpened, and many crisscrossed – probably to repel would-be invaders, but swinging himself up there had been easier than climbing the forest's trees. The tread of boots had not gone amiss; and he hung there, waiting…

His ears strained; the bootsteps grew louder, and then stopped entirely. He could hear the heavy breath; almost taste how rancid it was. The unwashed stench made him want to gag; how humans could dwell in such filth was quite beyond him. The pungent stink and sound of the torch he carried left him with the unwholesome urge to cleanse this place with fire. Now he was finally here, the reek of stables wafted towards him. Maybe he would begin by torching that… …or leave it ablaze.

The footsteps moved on. If these men were trained, there would be regular patrols and eliminating this one may alert the others… yet part of him was loathe to leave even a single one of these alive; deep within him, cold, hard logic whispered that every foe that drew breath was another blade, another bow, against him. Eliminate the surface guards and move down to the mines, it urged, to expect to sneak in and out unheard, unknown, was naïve… deprive the masters of this place of their resources. Anything less was foolish; in war, sacrifices must be made… and for every foe felled, it was one less that could harm his allies.

It was the last part that had convinced him; convinced him to scout the layout, and then turn his elfin finesse to butchery. Swinging himself lightly over the sharpened stakes, he landed softly, and scanned the land before him: the shadows of roaming clouds were disturbed only by the torches set twenty feet apart, all the way along… the bridge was deserted; another gate the other side. Platforms, for archers, lookouts, not true watchtowers stood; two of them. Beyond that? He could not see, except for the rise of a roof, and further, what must be the mine.

He glanced to his left; the guard was shuffling along; it was cold tonight, he realised from the way the man wrung his hands. He had not even noticed… other eyes may be watching… for now, this one would live. To his right, there was nothing, only a ladder. The palisade followed the bridge… time to climb.

Several moments later found the elf atop the main gate, apparently, the only way in, or out, of this place. He cast a glance at the raised platform behind him. Two guards had left this world, and in front, so had another. An arrow, taken from a fallen guard, had taken care of their sole companion over at the first gate. He had slumped without a sound – as arrows through the neck usually did. The scent of their blood had not reached the horses, and from the little noise they made, they seemed peaceful enough. He had been right about the barracks, he acknowledged wryly; the guardhouse was the only other building in the courtyard and from the light shining from under the door – and the noise, he suspected it might pass up as a tavern. The cold logic had suggested another thought; crueller than before, but no less reasonable. There was no chance of slaying everyone inside… and since there was no ballista, much to its annoyance, logic had suggested fire.

A quick sweep of the area, as he lowered himself to the ground, revealed a stash of logs, sharpened stakes and the like behind the stable. The horses did not stir at his presence, nor when he removed the hay bales… and part dragging, part rolling the log the short distance to block the guardhouse door had been simple enough. Even these guards had not been foolish enough to use open torches in the stables, using oil lamps instead. Their contents, he now splashed across the hay, and stepped back.

 _Finish it,_ the cold logic whispered, _jam the lock, then light the fuse, and take position: shoot down any who escape. There were no other exits, only arrowslits for windows._ If they escaped the blaze, it would be easy pickings.

The notion of burning men alive in their beds, possibly servant women should have turned his blood to ice; it didn't. It seemed the natural thing to do: to utilise the weapons at his disposal. How was it any different to running them through with cold, hard steel. Was there a difference? Was the pain they suffered before death any greater than if he had scorched them with arcane flames? The questions pounded through his skull, unrelenting, merciless; did he wish to die? How many had already fallen because of him? How many more would fall? Would he shy back from all of them?

They would hunt him regardless; the only way to live was for him to kill – and if he did not kill, they would, and they would not stop with him. His 'allies', those he cared for; innocent villagers, peasants, noblemen, merchants – death would take all of them, whether he chose to act or not. Whether it was by his foe or not. Was he a slave to death, or was he the master of his own destiny? Listen, the logic whispered…

Subconsciously, his mind separated the distinct voices inside; over the noise of the ramble, it was the following that convinced him.

"'E should be 'ere soon; stay calm, lad."

"But the message reached us _hours_ ago," it whined, "I wanta cleave 'is skull."

"An' ye will. We all will. 'Tha employers nay be happy with their little camp being razed."

"Aye," A third voice hissed, "our blades shall drink deep, an' long after he's dead, we'll be havin' fun with the girl."

"Heh, hee-hee, for Taugosz ta be beaten by a girl… hee- I always did be sayin' 'e was a pompous fool." A forth voice. "Oh joyous day; do you think we'll have to lead those 'goblin scum?"

"Eh, what it matter as long as we get to break a few skulls 'ere an' there?" The second voice stated wistfully. It sounded almost as gleeful as the fourth.

"Aye, but we'll be takin' ta elf's head first, 'member."

"I want to pluck its eyes! You said, you said!"

"Aye, so I did."

Feeling sick, he did not bother to listen to any more, but calmly made his way to the platform. Snatching up the fallen guard's quiver – no sense in wasting his own – he ripped a strip from the man's tunic, and wrapped it around the arrow.

There was no enjoyment to be taken, the logic acknowledged, as the flames soared skywards, drowning out the screams of those within; it was a necessary evil. Necessity dictated the means of survival; when desperate, morality took a step back, or you died with it.

He wasn't sure if he agreed as aimed his sights on the two caught in the doorway, both desperately struggling to shove past the other.


	15. Cloakwood & Dagger, part 4

The elevator creaked, the winches groaning in protest as the platform lowered. Shoddy workmanship. He didn't care to ask how study the thing was, but if it was used to ship crates of ore, it had to be fairly strong… Even to his elfin senses, time seemed to still; he did not know how long it took until the thing finally reached the bottom.

As it halted with a surprisingly soft 'bump', he found himself face to face with two burly guards. Mercenaries. Unshaven, rancid – missing a tooth or two – different uniforms to the guards on the surface. He didn't recognise them. Both carried broadswords and wore mail.

"Why're ye down here?" The first asked, his accent heavy and his breath worse. As the man bore down on him, the elf decided starting a brawl was not the smartest of ideas.

"Ther's troubel up tup." He said simply, "I came ta get help."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Baint know. Jus told ta get help."

"Wait 'ere." The man growled under his breath about 'mindless fools'.

"I don't recognise ye…" The second guard eyed him suspiciously.

"Baint recognise ye." The elf shrugged; in the torchlight, his features weren't obvious. Maybe he should have worn a headscarf…

"Damn yokels," The guard muttered, and ordered, "Well, step ye on." as the first guard returned with three more in tow.

This was not going to plan.

The platform ascended, at the same agonisingly slow speed as before. As it ground to a halt, the first guard shoved him forwards. The structure was as roughshod as it had been moments before, but the wave of fresh air was a blessed relief. He had been down there barely at all, but the confined reek of the guards left him inwardly gagging.

Stepping off the platform, he avoided the piled crates and edged towards the door. This shack was reinforced with same stakes that made the palisade and was meant to house the ore before it was carted off to… wherever. Not that that mattered, he decided, as he was pushed out the door with a curse and 'move it'.

Then they saw it; their collected intake of breath and curses as he was forced aside, and three of them, including the first guard, ran towards the burning guardhouse. "Get reinforcements," One snarled, "Now!"

The guard beside the elf swallowed and turned, just as the second elevator guard demanded dangerously, "Why didn't you mention–"

He never finished, the gurgle of blood replacing his words. The elf's dagger left him 'grinning ear to ear' and even before his hands clasped his throat, his murderer had spun around, drawing his blade in one smooth movement and stepped behind the other guard. The edge lifted to _his_ throat, and the elf whispered, "Not one word. Drop it."

The guard's own sword fell to the ground with a clatter.

Half pulling, half turning, the elf stepped away from the elevator, his hostage in tow. "Now," the elf hissed, "Tell them reinforcements are on their way; tell them _now_."

"Sir, we are–" the guard paused, then cried out, "betrayed! Ambu-"

A sharp tug, and he fell too, the elf's blade drinking deep. Shoving the dying man aside, he turned to the door in time to see the three mercenaries wheel and stare at the second guard sprawled outside the entrance. Even against the pillar of flames, he could see their disbelief and shock. Curses filled the air as he slammed the door shut. An axe hurtled and landed with a dull thud where he had been a heartbeat before. It didn't even faze him.

"Rush him," the first growled, "Before he bolts it–"

Calmly, the elf stabbed the tip of his sword between the wooden planking, and withdrew his bow. Not enough time to string it. Discarding it, he snatched up the fallen guard's belt knife, kicked open the door, pausing half a breath before threw it, before ducking back inside. The painful blasphemy indicated it had hit its mark. They were already half way upon him. Another thud; a knife clattered against the door.

He glanced around; no torches, but… an oil lamp. Seizing it from the rafters, he narrowly avoided being splattered with scalding oil and snatched up his sword. Any second now…

The door was flung open. He tossed the contents of the lamp into the man's face; he fell back clawing his eyes with a scream. The first guard shoved him aside mercilessly and stepped inside. Behind him, another limped; the one that had taken the knife in the thigh earlier. The elf took a step back, allowing the tip of his blade to lower slightly; let them think he was afraid…

"Ye got more than ye bargained fer," The first's face loomed, seemingly larger than a moment ago. He took another step, slowly, his eyes filled with malice… and glee? "Now, throw down ye sword like a good little lad, an' I promise ye, yer passin' will go… quicker."

He glanced from side to side; not so good, there was nowhere to retreat. The elevator would take too long… close-quarters, the distance was being eaten up… piled crates scattered around. If it came to a bodily brawl, he couldn't win. Sighting his bow in the corner, he inwardly reprimanded himself for not leaving it warmed and strung, but such a thing might have given him away.

The large warrior stepped closer.

The one behind held up the bloodied belt knife and threw it over his fellow's shoulder; the elf ducked and stepped to one side; it was the opening the first had been waiting for. He charged…

…And their blades met with a dull ' _clang'_.

His breath came heavy, as he stared over the edge of his sword, past his foe's, into his enemy's eyes. Big, blue, sharp, ruthless. The sadism was abhorrent, and in their reflection, he saw apathy in his own. Fearless. Deadpan. What was happening to him?

In his strong stance, the mercenary leant in, using his superior weight to drive the elf back. His grin widened as the elf gave way, slipping, and then crashing into a crate of ore.

Gasping, he felt his entire back and shoulders afire as the shock of wood breaking against him, the sensation of flight cut short, slamming into nuggets of ore winding him. Head whipping back, it cracked against the raw metal and sickly thick ichor spilt down. The shock almost ended him. Bringing up his blade, he felt his guard crumple as the man hammered it away. His grip failed, his sword falling from his fingers. The next blow would cleave him in twain… instinctively, he brought his knees up and overbalanced, half rolling, half falling… at the man's boots.

"Not so tough now, are ye?"

He heard him grunt, acutely aware of the blade held ready to split him – and of the agony at the back of his head. Already the blood was matting in his hair. The air exploded from him as the man booted him in the ribs. He vomited, coughing blood. His side – gods, it burned – hadn't fully healed. Bandaged enough for him to move, but… the boot trod down, stamping on his back. He fell flat, grateful it wasn't his head.

"Oh, don't ye be blackin' out now, boy," The mercenary leant down, "we be only beginning; ye'll be wishin' ye'd never been born before we're through with you. But first…" The sensation of weightlessness, being lifted – and slamming face-first into a crate twice the length and height of his body hit him. "Get som' rope, Arth." He leaned in, his breath hot against the pounding thud in his skull. "We'll keep ta questions fer later."

Somewhere, he heard the sizzle of a flame, and felt his head yanked back by his hair. Against an oil lamp, a knife tip was being heated. He shivered, and heard laughter, before his head was planted into the crate. "Don't ye worry, I won't let ye be sleepin' just yet…"

Distantly, he was aware of 'Arth' calling for reinforcements…

The leathers he had commandeered were ripped from him.

Red haze filled his vision as meaty palms clamped down upon him. Bruises were already beginning to form, he knew, and even the rancid breath against the back of his neck hurt. He felt himself thrown to the floor; more wooden planks rushing up to meet his vision. Something crunched; was it his nose? His lip had already split. He felt himself hauled up; dragged… his arms twisted sharply, almost torn from their sockets and coarse rope bound his wrists and ankles. The same meaty hand slapped his cheek; "I told ye, no sleepin' yet…" it brought him back to awareness.

"It ain't'll be half as fun if ye ain't there ta enjoy it…" Damp warmth, the coarse drag of a tongue against his delicate ear… he shivered. "'Ere ye are… ye see." Another slap; not to his face. "We'll be gettin' ta it soon enough."

Darkness.

Throbbing, dull pain lanced through him.

The air in here was warmer; he couldn't see. Had he been? No, not blinded; just… a bag. He fought to breathe; slow, deep… too quickly and he would pass out. He couldn't concentrate; he had to. Panic arose; what if… no, he had to still himself. Heavy boots rushed by him, not one pair, many. How many? He didn't know; rough hands pulling him. The world lurched; he found himself falling – someone caught him before he hit the ground. Then he was dropped; a boot planted on his side, grinding him into the floor; he could feel it through the bag. The coarse weave; sackcloth. The floor moved; sinking.

He was dead now, he realised, despair setting in. This wasn't how it was meant to be… this wasn't… what was promised him. Fury arose, overcoming even the pain; his mother, his own mother had lied to him – the dreamself had lied… his vision turned bright, crimson. He didn't struggle, but a cold, calm, clarity took hold. What use was he if he could not even focus? Was this all it took to bring him down? They had not even begun to torture him – was he defenceless as soon as his sword was stripped away? Could a few blows stun him that he could no longer wield the Art?

It was useless. _He_ was useless. The cold logic taunted him. What good could he do now? Even if he vanished, there were many foes to deal with and he could not even lift a finger. He was trapped. This wasn't another one of the folktales where he would slay his captors in a superhuman feat of might; defeat his bonds and escape. He was weak, useless, pathetic; give into the despair, accept his fate… accept his folly. Go ahead, resist… prove the logic wrong. Logic was never wrong. He should have bolted the door, should have listened. Did he expect some power to suddenly develop? To tear through him, take possession? Nothing would save him; no one was there. He was alone… as soon as he was within the cell, the living torment would begin. The violation would be the least of it, the logic promised. He would be reduced to nothing before death finally took him; he would embrace death as his closest friend, warmest ally…

He felt the elevator descent halt.


	16. Cloakwood & Dagger, part 5

"Wake him."

His eyes opened before he felt the bag ripped from his head. Torchlight flooded his sight and left him blinking. The cool, hardness of a table lay beneath him; wood, not stone. He could barely move, he realised, flexing ever so slightly. Irons… chains. He was locked down tight. He couldn't make out the room; he was horizontal; no, he was moving… dull cranking sounded in his ears, as soon, he was vertical.

"'E's awake."

"I can see that," The words were cold, then disgusted, "Put that thing away."

Eyes adjusting to the light, he squeezed them closed then open; a figure stepping back from view. A burly, bald man with a blood speckled apron. In his hand hung an iron poker. The tip was white. Looking vaguely disappointed, he dipped his head and muttered something… blue robes stepped forwards; the elf's gaze wandered up. The gold trimmed silk finished above smooth, porcelain curves; a slender neck maned with golden tresses… pursing lips; a petite nose; pale sapphire eyes, almost piecing in their intensity.

"Look at what we have here," Her dainty mouth curled into a smile; "Won't he be _pleased_!" Her laughter was light, almost musical despite her slight lisp. Clapping her hands together, she leaned in, "While everyone else is out looking for you, you waltz right into our hands! My, isn't this wonderful?"

He stared at her.

Squeezing his cheeks, she continued, "Such a shame though; such a _handsome_ young man," Her eyes widened as she licked her lips, "Far too tasty to be given to the lads." Her eyes ran over him, "I do so hope they weren't _too_ hard on you bringing you down here." Her nose wrinkled and she sniffed, "Dry blood is such… a bore. But then, what would you know of that?"

She released him, and sneered, "What did you _really_ hope to achieve coming in here alone? Poison the stew? Stalk us and bring us down one by one? Murder us in our beds?" Her hand cracked across him, his vision reeling. "Stupid, stupid child. Did you truly think you could actually _win_?

"Your firing of the guardhouse was pathetic; any fool could have managed that. Those," Her eyes rolled, "fools on the top were a coin a dozen; cheap sellswords. I warned Davaeron, so I did. You caused less damage than you think, boy."

She gestured, holding out her hand. The burly man placed a knife in it, his. "It's pretty," Holding it up to the light, she inspected the edge, "Elfincraft?"

He felt himself nod.

"So you can hear; goodie. It makes everything so much easier." Beaming, she leaned in, and stepped around, her cheek pressing to his, "You see there?" She directed his gaze as her hand gripped his jaw, "All your things are against that wall." Coldly, "Show him."

The man pulled a blanket from a rack; his blade, his bow, his satchel – everything was there, even his garments.

"Now, you have a choice, sweetie. You can either tell me what I wish to know," She tilted his head to see hers, "Or I can return and leave you to his affections. Davaeron thinks that talking with prisoners now, before they're 'tenderised' is a waste of time, but you look like an intelligent enough lad, for someone stupid enough to assault our little mine alone." Her smile brightened, and she ran her fingernail along his jaw, "So what will it be: my questions, or his?"


	17. Cloakwood & Dagger, part 6

Memories.

How much time had it been? How long since he had left…

That morning, before dawn. The chill had been especially cruel, he remembered. The mists had taken hours to clear; cloud had followed, almost mist within itself. The freshness of the air, as if rain had fallen, felt so out of place, so inappropriate. The night before he had decided; he had known. He was no mere child, no mere sapling… how many years had he studied? How long had he poured over those texts… how much knowledge had he amassed?

Hour upon hour spent in those draughty halls, dry tombs and dusty bookshelves… how little he had slept; needing even less than the humans that spent their lives there, oft long into the early hours of the morning. So long had his own eyes read beside theirs, putting all but the most dedicated to shame. The words had leapt off the pages, sealed into his mind as if branded by fire. He had devoured tome upon tome, scroll upon scroll… he could recite it all from heart. Those stone walls, nestled upon the cliffs had been home.

The denizens of the keep barely noticed him, except when he went outside, and even then, they were too preoccupied with their own affairs, their own… learning. Their studies took precedence over all. He had followed their example. Those few nights, early mornings and evenings when he was not studying his boots had trodden the grassy cliffs outside the walls. Those walls, so tall, so imposing, yet even they were no match for a youngster, determined to scale them; footholds, handholds… he had it down to an artform; slipping in and out at will, learning to tread unseen, unheard – long before he was into his adolescence.

Such skills had served him, perhaps even more so within the keep than out; to be able to transverse the carpeted halls in silence had spared him many a glare and sharp word that others, less quiet, had suffered. And when even that failed to capture his attention, he sought solitude, stealing away and seeking quiet reflection within the keep's tallest tower, a storeroom no longer used and all but forgotten. There, he would train with bow, blade and dagger, acting out what he had read within the tomes telling of such things; manuscripts telling of his people, of their arts of war. How the humans had acquired them, he did not ask; he only studied. Studied their methods of war, and what he believed should be his own.

Somedays, he would train with the keep guard, at the insistence of his 'father'; under their tutelage, he progressed – not with a blade, but with a staff. The bow, in later years, he taught himself; little tricks gleaned from watching the contests the guards held; hunting for himself. Always, he would return before the night was out, no one the wiser.

Often the keep was locked; his window barred – he had learnt to leave it open; and the door to the foodcellar? That, he had learnt to unlock. The quiet life, he knew, would not last. He had not known when he had first felt it; when the first dream had arrived… but ever since that day he had always know. What good was the knowledge if he never used it? Was he too fated to rot away as the aged scholars who spent their twilight within the ancient halls? But the dreams had come… and he had left, telling no one.

The letter he had spied upon his 'father's' desk had only confirmed it. So very vague. The half finished letter in response… cryptic correspondence to unnamed contacts. So be it; let the old man have his secrets. He had kept his; he had never shared the dreams with anyone, nor the beginnings of power manifesting within him. He had known there would be no return. No one ever left this place who lived there, no one without great wealth. He had taken all he had; a blade belonging to his people, a bow of the same, his long dagger; robes, satchel… a purseful of coins, garnered over the years from chores this and that, his quiver…

Death stalked his heels.

How many had come for him? How many had he slain… he no longer knew. Part of him didn't even care.

The dreamself stared back at him. Silent, taunting, mocking him with those dead eyes. It waited, evaluating, observing; the unspoken offer – stretch out his hand, embrace the shade, his dark reflection; become one with it. Take the power for himself. It had all been about this; everything leading up to this point: to become a slave to death, or to master it. Would he accept the gifts given to him; the sheer power of his blood?

The manifestations so far were nothing; to sense the pulsing life of those around him; to call back deceased spirits… pitiful. The feats of children compared to his true potential; to drain the lifeforce of others and siphon it for himself, to bind their spirits to this plane; to command and control their spirits, even within their still-living bodies… and that was only the beginning. Was he too afraid to truly know himself; to master himself?

What was the cost, he wondered.

The dreamself's look was that of disgust, scornful as it dismissed him…


	18. Cloakwood & Dagger, part 7

"Well, what'll it be?" The blonde lady asked, her tone a mite impatient, "I don't have all day to waste on you, no matter how pretty you are."

"If I…" The pain was subdued; almost gone. Just a nagging itch in the back of his mind. A smile formed on his own lips; he could see it in the reflection of her surprised eyes, "give you what you wish, what guarantee have I you won't," He jerked his head in the burly man's direction, "hand me to him anyway."

"Oh, but ain't you the sassy one. Well now sweetie; you seem to be actin' as if you've a choice." Her tone hardened, "You don't. I'll be handing you to him anyway; the only choice you have to make is how much pain you suffer before I do."

He lifted his head, and shifted it to one side a couple of times.

Frowning, she leant forwards.

"You know he," He murmured in her ear, "is just waiting for you to stain your pretty little hands. It's in his eyes; the thought of pain… it awakens his passion. I'll give you what you want and more; I'm no threat to you, but… I ask we would be alone." His tongue flicked out and caught her cheek, "See we're not disturbed…"

Her eyes widened, then she laughed, "You really are a sassy one." She tilted her head, "You think you can seduce me?" Her lips pursed, and she traced her finger along his ear, "Don't you know I'm Davaeron's?"

"You were sent here to break me…" Looking up at her, he breathed, "Isn't a… willing subject less tedious for you?"

"Maybe I enjoy hearing the screams of those in pain." Leaning forwards, she licked her lips, "Perhaps I wish to break you."

"And you require an audience?" He chuckled, despite himself, "Take me as your own, then you can bring your pain; one time with a lady as beautiful as you is my price."

"You sound so desperate," She drawled, "I'm half tempted."

"Is not a man… allowed to admire beauty, even in his last hours?"

"You men are all the same." Despite her dismissal, her eyes were hungry.

He smiled, "Care to find out before I'm in such a state you'll never know?"

"You," She called over her shoulder, without ever taking her gaze off the elf's, "Out."

"But my lady–"

"I wish to interrogate this one alone. I'll call you when I'm done."

His heavy footsteps trundled off; his disappointment almost tangible as the door shut.

Her features were alight with sadistic curiosity, "Now…"

"Alas, with my hands and wrists bound… I'm afraid, you'll have to loosen me." He looked down pointedly. "I don't expect you to unbind me entirely, after all," His words were wry, "you need some pretence of your dominance over me… that is, until you break my will."

Dark laughter resounded off the cold, stone walls. "Oh, I am going to _enjoy_ you…"


	19. Cloakwood & Dagger, part 8

"So your name is Natasha?" He mused, tapping his lip in thought; from the robed-spread table, she stared up at him, her eyes slightly vacant. Then they sparkled in excitement; she knew how she could please him! Purring, she beamed brightly, "Uh-huh! And you're the elf everyone's hunting; I know all about _you_! You wouldn't believe how much that mean ol' man wants _you_ dead! But _I_ know all Davaeron's secrets! Once he knows who you really are, he'll want to hurt you and we can't have that, can we? It'll never happen!" The thought of losing him left her face twisting viciously, "We'll kill everyone that tries!" She brightened again, "So we'll be together forever!" Then her enthusiasm faded to a half-pout, "Won't you come over here?"

Smiling tolerantly at her disappointment, he tsked, "I've only just put this robe on."

Her face fell, and she stretched, offering him a full view of her front. Idly kicking her feet in the air, she sighed, "Then what _can_ we do?"

"You can put _your_ clothes back on."

"But that's _boring_!"

"Now, now. Don't whine." He chided, eyeing the blooded knife she held in her hand, "And clean my knife off and give it back. You can have his," Jerking his head at the dead man's – the former torturer lying in the corner – he straightened his robe.

"But I like yours!" Her tone rose, almost child-like in her protest. "You're not being _fair_. You _said_ I could if I stabbed the man– you promised!"

"I said no such thing; now clean it and give it back."

Pouting even more than before, she rolled to her feet, neither caring nor showing awareness of her complex exposure. "I thought you liked me," She mock sniffed, her bright eyes blue and large, "You said you did!"

"I do. Now, cover yourself up; we need to get going."

"More to kill? And then we'll–"

"Yes," He smiled, cutting her off, "Then I'll reward you for being such a good girl."

"Promise?"

"My word."

Her vacant beam lit her flawless features as she bounded over to him and presented him his knife, flat across her palms. Her delight when he petted her cheek was almost painful. All but bouncing over to the burly man, she snatched up his decided longer, more curved knife and her expression turned to glee. She was back at his side in a heartbeat.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" He looked pointedly at her discarded robe.

"Aww… must I?"

He sighed and her face fell. "We don't want the others to suspect we want to murder them, now do we? We want to keep it a _big_ surprise! Think of how much more fun it will be!"

Had she a tail, surely it would be wagging, he thought in disgust.

Caught between the promise of expected thrill as she watched their life slip away before her, and the annoyance of being clad in robes, the desire to please him won out. She dressed quickly, leaving her robe scandalously open, the sash barely enough to hold it in place. A rebellious giggle followed, her hips singing as she left the room.

Ahead of him, he heard gasps, turning to surprised cries – quickly silenced. She poked her head around the corner, the torturer's blade sheathed in crimson.


	20. Cloakwood & Dagger, part 9

His pulse throbbed; he winced; he needed to feed soon. Feed? Where had that word come from. Ah, but then, that's what it was, wasn't it? Preying on these lesser beings; prey. Feeding on these beings that were less than him, as a lion feasted upon a lamb; yes, this is exactly what it was. He stretched out his hand, flexing his fingers and examined them. Torn, bruised – no longer.

He had sucked the lifeforce out of the fool utterly, draining him completely; he had felt his spirit ebb, convulsing under his touch and then… nothing. Even that had not been enough to sate him; his body still ached, protesting as he forced his bruised muscles to move. The skin had knitted together; not even a scar was left. Part of him wanted to laugh. A distant part of him… wept. He had let the man's spirit go before devouring all of it; enough for it to flee to whatever afterlife awaited it. It would be weakened, he acknowledged calmly; it was dead anyway. The man's own knife had killed it, guided by Natasha's hand. How apt.

Yet part of him recoiled in horror; how much more would he need to absorb before he was whole again? What sort of monster had he become? No, he had done what he needed to survive; nothing more. But… how much more of this power could he use? How far could he draw from the well's depth? There was more, he knew, so much more, but… there were invisible walls in the way; veiling him from touching his source. But every time he used this… he felt them weaken, and felt himself grow stronger.

Even from behind the walls, he could sense the brilliant golden light; he could not 'see', but it was there: beautiful, radiant – white in its innermost core, burning like a sun. He burnt like the sun, glorious and pure… yet over it, a thin inky film, dark ichor lay. Yet even its thickness, the… hatred was not enough to sully it. The film had yielded soon enough, but not before wrapping itself around his hand and forearm as his ethereal body had reached through it.

The dreamself had approved; he had felt it approve. The cold, waking logic; it dictated there was no other course: survive or perish. It was right. Still… delving into her mind; it had taken little to bend her spirit to his will. Persuasion was almost effortless. Weakling, the logic spat in disgust; she was weak and he was finally beginning to exercise the power that was truly his by right. How else did he intend to survive?

He walked on.

Natasha's head poked around another corner before stepping into view smugly. Proudly, she held up a simpering girl by the hair; she looked to be in her late teenage years. She was sobbing piteously, desperately trying not to make a sound. The knife was at her throat, still dripping with the dark crimson of others. Even as Natasha held her, she could see the terror in those grey eyes; hear her gasp as she flopped to her knees; see the shadow of her rough bodice in her brown and white homespun dress.

"Shall I kill her?" Natasha asked brightly, "Shall I? I brought her you just as you asked!"

"No," He shook his head, the disappointment and relieved gasp hitting him. A wave of disgust passed through her. Stepping closer, he kept his voice low, ever aware there might be more guards. So far, they had run into few and Natasha had dealt with those few he had not. "Have you done as I asked?"

"Yes, yes! The stew is filled with our little surprise!"

"And the girl?" His tone was flat, even. "She'll serve it to them."

"I told her I'd cut her up into little pieces if she didn't!"

Looking down at her, he realised in her eyes' reflection his own held no pity. "You will do as she asked?"

The girl nodded, still terrified.

"Feed her this; see that she does, _discretely_." Amazing what one could find in a torturer's cabinet. Venoms, drugs… "If she screams…"

The girl's mouth shut instantly, and opened again as Natasha yanked her hair back. She drank the liquid willingly. It would not be long until her eyes were glassy too. He shivered inwardly; the one who had devised such things was twisted indeed… and he? He more so for using them. No, he was at war, he reminded himself silently. Natasha escorted the girl off.

Several moments later, the entire dining hall lay dead.

"Now can I kill her?"


	21. Cloakwood & Dagger, part 10

Standing before a row of cells, he stared at the harden oaken door. "Open it." He snapped; his voice sounded harder than he intended. The terrified gaoler managed a sharp salute and did as he instructed. From behind, Natasha's knife slit his throat ear-to-ear and he fell to the floor with a thud. That got the miners' attention.

"Watch the door; no one enters or leaves until I say so."

She pouted.

"You can kill any that do."

Her dreamy smile was back.

Rows upon rows of cells. Twelve in all. Crammed with scrawny, filthy… barely an ounce of meat between them. Would they be of any use at all? Loincloths was all that offered them modesty; most were so tattered it made little difference. Some of them lifted their eyes towards him; most did not. Their tired, wretched expressions gave him little hope.

"Ye killed him," One said, almost surprised. Almost. Another just sat back down, shaking his head and moaning.

"They'll kill us for sure now…"

"Silence!" He heard himself bark, "To those of you who wish death: remain here. To those who wish a chance of freedom," He cast his gaze around the lot; a few had stirred, sitting up, interested; a faint spark had returned – as if the word was something that had not heard in an age. Perhaps they hadn't. "…there is a roomful of dead guards. Your captors. Strip them of their weapons and armour, arm yourselves and head to the surface."

"What?" The first said, "Yer mad! Taken leave of ye senses! Us? Fight? Ha! That's a laugh."

"So be it. You'll all die here." How cold his voice had become. As icy as the peaks of the Cloudpeak mountains themselves… "I offer you this chance: it is your choice as to whether you stay or go."

"They're… really dead?" A third voice rasped, wretched in it's bewilderment, "Ye… slew a whole room? Be ye an archon, lad?"

"Nay; he be a demon." A fourth whispered, "Ta the hells with ye! Where were ye months ago? Where were ye then?! Back when I had a family…"

"Silence fool," yet another voice hissed, "lad, be ye words true?"

"See for yourself." Holding out the keychain, he dangled it in front of the closest set of bars. "The elevator mechanism is jammed. Can any of you repair it, or know of another way out of here? I intend to destroy this place."

"Aye…" A lone voice from the back called; heavily accented, he couldn't place it, or make out its owner. "Ye truly wish ta destroy this place?"

"Yes." He unlocked the first door, "Take this, and free the rest."

The freed man stared at him; stared at his own hands, almost sobbing in relief. "I'm… free?"

"Release them _now_."

The man bobbed his head and set to work; men stumbled out, awed, bewildered; many wept. Most could not believe it.

"Quickly now. Go." Pausing, he called, "Natasha, let these men go."

Some of them froze; one queried hesitantly, "Natasha?"

"She's the–"

"She's Davaeron's witch…"

A murmur of anger swept through the amassed ranks. There were perhaps thirty of them.

"She's mine," He addressed them, his naked blade firmly in hand. "She has been… convinced that this is wrong. No one touches her."

The mob stepped back. In their eyes, he could see their fear; he could almost taste it. "Now go, and take your freedom. If any of you still have a kind heart within you, you'll take the cook and the servant girl with you. You can find them in the kitchen; they are not to blame. Now get out of here."

Hurried, mumbled thanks were muttered as they ambled past him. When the river of scrawny flesh had finally subsided, a lone voice called out from the furthest cell. "I owe ye a debt o' gratitude laddie." It was the same accented voice that had spoken earlier. "To be beholden ta an elf t'aint quite wha I had in mind when I t'was prayin' for deliverance, but ye a welcome sight none ta less. So saviour, tell me, how ye plan ta ruin me mine?"

"Your mine?" The words were out even before the stunted shadow crept into view; a hunchback? No… a dwarf. As wretched as the rest, there was something about him that reeked not of desperation, but of survival; this one hadn't given up the will to live yet. Bloodied, bruised and torn, he was dressed much the same as the rest, but it was clear he had been tortured whereas they had not – at least, not in the same manner.

"Aye, me mine."

"Who are you?"

"Yeslick, an' ye?"

"Aurifyr." The lie was the easiest thing now; it came freely, without hesitation or doubt. But then, what was one lie compared to the atrocities he had already committed?

"Well met, laddie. This 'ere be me clan's mine."

"It would seem… others contest that claim."

"A dry a comment as ever I heard, but true enough lad. Be a tale of treason an' betrayal o'ver ta best o friends." He thumped his shoulder, "An' I be havin' a score ta settle," Shrewdly, he peered through his matted beard, "An' no doubt ye's yer own tale ta tell, but I won't be botherin' ye with tha' now. What'd ye say? Shall we find ta master o me mine an' crack his skull open fer this?"

"That was my intention."

"I be thinkin' it be." He paused, shuffling forward and squinting, "Wha' o' 'er? She be ta accursed devilmage's own critter. I'd nay be trustin'–"

"As much as I value the sentiment," How much colder could his voice become? "It is neither asked for nor required. If you wish to travel with me, no more questions on this. Otherwise, you'll seek vengeance on your own."

"If tha' be ta way ye wish it, so be it."

"I am not normally so cold, master dwarf, but these are… difficult circumstances."

"I understand laddie," The dwarf rasped, his barrelled chest heaving, "Mayhaps we speak more o'this when it be done, over a fine tankard or three."

"Agreed." Glancing down, he frowned, "First to find you some weapons."

"A fine axe'll do me."

"How typical."

"Eh?"

"Be that all yer kind uses? O' hammer an' axes?"

"They be fine killin' tools, lad, and nay ye be mockin' me speech."

"Sorry."

Straightening, he turned, "Come, Natasha. We've an armoury guard for you to deal with."

"Oooh, goodie!"

The dwarf stared, shook his head and ambled on behind him, even as Natasha bounded on ahead, cradling her blade gleefully.


	22. Cloakwood & Dagger, part 11

"You jest, surely?"

"Nay laddie,"

"Is he serious?"

"This is _boring_. Can we kill something now? I'll do whatever you wish!"

"Stop flashing your thigh; we're in polite company–"

"He's a _dwarf_!"

"I don't care; do as you're told. Where's your loincloth any– in fact, I don't want to know. Now – are you serious in your intent to wear that?"

"Aye lad."

"Well… it's your choice, but…"

"It be protectin' me knees an' nay be slowin' me down."

"If you're sure…"

"Aye. Now nay I be one ta ever agree with ta likes o 'er, but she be makin' a fine point laddie."

"Very well; let us proceed."

"More foes to slaughter! Can I cut them this time? Can I? Can I?"

"Yes, yes; but only if they are foes. No harming the miners in their armour."

"Aww…"

"I mean it."

"I nay like ta be askin' ye, but what did ye do ta 'er, lad?"

He sighed. "This is why I travel alone." He muttered.

"Wha'sat, lad? I nay hear ye."

"Did you say something? Was it about killing everything until we're all alone down here? I like it!"

"Will you two _please_ quiet down! And cease clanking, friend dwarf!"

"I nay can be helpin' it, lad."

This time, his sigh was more despairing. Staring at the pair, he shook his head and decided to make the best of it. A blood-thirsty knife-wielding lustful lady of passion, and a dwarf whose mail was not 'one size fits all'. What a day this was turning out to be. Whoever heard of such a thing? Truly, this 'Davaeron' would not take them seriously when it came to facing him. Pausing, he held up his hand for them to halt. Amazingly, they did. From the cries ahead, it sounded as if the miners were giving a good account of themselves. Perhaps a few might even make it to the surface. Stepping back, he watched as a full dozen ran past him; several wore only loincloths. Well, it stood to reason there were many more that were not kept within the cells. At this rate, there would be a full-scale riot and only a few bruises to show for it and perhaps a few dead miners… Hmm.

"Well, tey be in ta much o a hurry even ta don mail?"

"I doubt they will last very long, if they do not."

"Auuuurilaen, they're stealing all our kills!"

"We've greater prey to slay, Natasha. Just be patient a while longer." He paused, "You're ready, dwarf?"

"Aye lad, as ever I will be."

"Then let us descend. How many more levels to this infernal place?"

"Three, lad."

"Neeer, the dwarf has it wro-oong! There's four."

"Ah. They must have dug deeper. So tell me, about this key…"

"Aye, ta key that plugs ta river."

"Davaeron has it! Davaeron has it!"

"Then we'll pluck from his still-warm, dead hands."

"Aye."

"Yay! And then we'll flood _everything_ and-and-and _everyone_ will die!"

He tried to keep from groaning. He almost managed.

The stairs were unguarded; hardly a surprise since there were bodies strew across it; from the amount of flesh alone, he could tell which were guards and which were not. None of the bodies were covered; every weapon taken, with just about every strip of cloth, mail, jewellery and belt purse. But then, he had not expected to find anything less; after all, they had a right to pick everything clean. It was not as if he needed, nor wanted it. At the bottom, more corpses greeted him; still warm, according to Natasha's disappointment. He barely took in the sight; the miners had taken the guards by surprised, rushing them. A couple had got off a couple of shots, judging by the broken arrows, trampled underfoot, then broken the hastily erected half-ring. The slaughter had been quick, and brutal. The miners had lost three; the guards eight.

More bodies followed; the trail of blood led on. A lone guard, then three clustered together; a roomful – more miners, more guards. Surely the original miners must all be dead? But no, their numbers kept expanding. In the distance, he heard more fighting; bands of them run amok. How many were down here? Enough for a small army, it seemed. Less than two hundred, according to Natasha; miners or guards? She shrugged; she didn't care, as long as she got to kill them she reminded him sullenly. Even Yeslick seemed nervous; the miners were penetrating deeper and deeper, and so far, the only sign of battle he and his duet had seen was the traces of brief skirmishes. But it was soon to end; the guards seemed to be aware of the growing revolt and had pulled back. It had been twelve minutes since they had encountered a corpse…

"Wait," He frowned; "Did you hear that?"

"Screams of the dying!"

"Be quiet," he snapped irritably, "I'm serious–"

"But I mean it! See, see!"

She was right, he realised; the echo was of the dying. But guards or miners?

"Be wary; I mean it," He fixed Natasha with a sharp look, "I don't need you dying."

She stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. The concept seemed alien to her. He began to wonder if the effect was permanent; if it was not, and the hold he had on her wore off, would he be able to regain it? Still, he was sure he would sense the change; somewhere, his mind seemed aware of the grip he had on her, and there was no struggle, nor was it fading. For now. He wondered how many more he could hold; he decided he did not wish to put it to the test. If taking another meant his concentration weakened, he did not wish to see the result… or if it meant releasing Natasha. Yet, she seemed docile enough; it was not as if there was an active bond between them.

"Or you, friend dwarf. So keep your wits – and axe, about you."

"Ye needn't be tellin' me, lad. I wish me vengeance as much as ye and I t'ain't bein' born yesterday."

"Aye, aye, even so."

"Aye." He hefted his shield; it was almost the size of him. With an overly tall helm of reinforced leather, he looked almost as armoured as a knight in full plate. Looking up at the elf through his beard, the dwarf seemed to sense his thoughts, "I'll be takin' point, laddie. Ye an' ta lass stay behind ta clear up." He shook his head, mumbling, "Cannae believe I be riskin' me life fer ta likes o' _her_."

"But–"

"Not one word."

"Kill-kill-kill?"

"Yes, soon. Now get behind me and ensure no one flanks us from our rear."

Sulkily, she obeyed.

The dwarf rambled on ahead… 


	23. Cloakwood & Dagger, part 12

"Ther be fifteen o' tem, laddie." Yeslick reported thoughtfully, "All cowerin' under a table turned o'er. A weak barricade at best. We could storm it with ease, lad."

"Yes, but the fifteen?"

"Aye, an' tey have crossbows too. Ye've a bow o' yer own."

"And no cover with which to hide behind."

"Bah! Lad, listen to yeself; ye've me."

"True, and even a stray shot could take out ye eye."

"Me eye be safe behind this 'ere shield."

"An' ta lass will wait fer me signal."

"Aye, laddie, now yer talkin'."

"Still, fifteen of them…"

"Let us take them by surprise and then we'll cut their throats! Blood! Death!"

"All right, all right, I get the picture, my little blood thirsty sociopath."

"What's a sociopath?"

"Damn me if I be knowin' lass."

He had to refrain from sighing. "Nevermind."

"So lad, ye with me?"

"Yes! Less talk, more slaughter!"

"Next you'll be wanting to munch their eyes."

"Eww! That's a great idea! Even better would be their throats! Gnash, gnash! I'll have to sharpen my teeth!"

" _No_! I mean, I like your teeth as they are; perfect, in alignment…"

"Aww…"

"Oh for the love of – look, let's get to killin'."

"Now yer talkin' lad. I thought ye'd never say."

"Yay!"

"May the gods have mercy on my soul…"

The mobile dwarf-shield-elf-archer 'killing machine' moved forward at an agonisingly slow pace. Some 'surprise storm', the elf grumbled to himself. By the time they rounded the corner and actually _got_ there, a day would have passed.

When they finally did… the mercenaries' world exploded.

Feeling as if they needed a trailer or 'push-cart', a low wheeled thing that Natasha could push from behind did nothing for his state of mind, the elf decided, as they surprised the guards with their 'furious assault'. Even as his arrows left his bow, and he rapidly reloaded, snatching the one out of his teeth and sending that through the eye-socket of one as he turned to see where the other that-had-taken-his-comrade-through-the throat had come from.

Ducking to reload and place another arrow in his mouth, the replying barrage of bolts thudded. Three, then two more. Five? Hardly a barrage after all, he decided, leaping up and scanning the scene in half a heartbeat.

He barely paused to take aim before he released and notched the second arrow. Why, his bow was ready and loosened even as his arrow took the mercenary in the shoulder. The most recent arrow took one in the chest; the guard dodged it striking his heart. Not that it mattered, the elf shrugged inwardly, dropping to a crouch again. That was… four, out of four. Fatal thuds. Not bad, he acknowledged, as the dwarf shuffled forwards. How many bolts stuck out of his shield now? They'd have to get him a fresh one – if they survived. He must thank Lady Fortune again for that little skirmish with the ettercap, he decided. Its spiders' venom were dropping even the non-fatal shots.

"Quick, charge 'em lads!" One mercenary yelled, finally cluing onto the fact that the barricade was not actually in their favour. "Shift the table! At 'em!"

A couple more bolts followed, but most of them rushed to move the tables; three arrows from his side, each striking a guard. A bicep, a thigh and a boot – well, they _were_ shifting the table and barrels. Natasha must have peeking around the corner; the man thrashing as he hopped on one foot, and shoved aside by his fellows left her in a fit of giggles. In fairness, he couldn't _really_ blame her. Over the shrieks and din of curses, Yeslick himself mutter, "Dinnae wet yeself lassie."

"Aye, an' any moment now–"

"Be ready lad."

He did not need telling twice; forsaking his bow for his sword, he calmly drew both blade and dagger, and crouched behind the dwarf.

The barrier fell with a crash, five guards ploughing forth. Blocking their crossbow wielding fellows in the bottleneck, three of their mêlée-men were trapped, each trying to shoulder their way through. The two in front met the dwarf's roar with a cry; his shield boss slamming into the knee of one, and his axe into the hip of the other. The elf hardly had a chance to lean over and skewer one in the throat. As bones cracked, the guards fell, 'hopping mad'. Yeslick's axe fell with brutal efficiency and soon, they did not even twitch.

One of the three, wriggled free, and booted the dwarf's shield; he should have known better; the staunch dwarf did not even shift an inch. Parrying the axe with his broadsword, he yelled, "Crossbows to the fore!"

The armoured dwarf cut through him, cleaving him from groin to chin. Exchanging glances, at the unmoveable-unstoppable dwarf the two caught between the wreckage tried to pull back.

The elf calmly picked up his bow, and another crossbowman fell. "Natasha," he beckoned, "You're on."

"Yay!" A blood-curdling shriek emanated from her lips, momentarily startling the remaining guards. As the last crossbowman fell, courtesy of an arrow in his throat, the three remaining guards began to break. An invincible dwarf sustaining no wounds and a sharpshooting elf who never missed…

Before they could beat a retreat, the knife-wielding woman was upon them. Quite literally throwing herself past the dwarf and into the fray, she dragged the first one down, stabbing at him all the way; blood gushed out of him from seven different wounds before he toppled, and by the time he had, she had raked her way, much like a pouncing lioness, heedless of her own morality, the elf decided, onto the second. He too, went down in a fountain of crimson, suffering just as many, if not more stabs. In futile, he struggled, but was unable to throw her off. The last spun around, snatched up a crossbow and shakily pointed it at her; as she charged, the bolt flew wide, barely grazing the shoulder of her robe. This seemed to incense her further and he fell in a flurry of thrusts.

"Well, it gall me ta admit it, but she ain't half bad," Yeslisk wiped his brow, shouldering through the barrier. "Fer cleanup, a' least."

"So it seems. Heel, Natasha."

"Aww…"

"He's dead; you can stop stabbing him now."

"But-but-but–"

"Don't make me confiscate your knife."

"Yes master Aurifyr, no need for that! I'm stopping; see? Knife's away! Knife's away! Don't say that! I'll be good for you! Please no takey!"

"All right, but no stabbing bodies after they're dead."

She nodded empathetically. He shook his head; that threat worked almost too well. He sighed.

"Anything on them?"

"I'll check, I'll check!"

"Nay, nothin' laddie; just ta usual."

"Well, keep their belt-purses, friend dwarf. After we're through this, you may have need of their coin. It is only fitting, after all."

"Aye lad; I thank ye for ye generosity, but what about ye?"

"I've no need of coin."

"Nay need? Do me ears be failin' me?"

"I am an elf." His tone was dry, as he scanned the bodies. Just more guards. How much further?

"Tha' be truth."

Ignoring it, he suppressed the urge to sigh wearily, "How long until we reach Davaeron?"

"Not much longer! We're almost there! Soon, soon shall we cut him!"

"Does he have a bodyguard?"

"Mm, yes! Big, burly, hulking men all in platemail, like real knights! But they're baaaad boys, not at all like goody-two shoe _paladins_. So tasty! I can hardly wait to kill them! We are going to kill them, aren't we?"

"Yes, we'll kill them," This time, he did not smile, as he retrieved his arrows; a few were unusable; most had lost their venom. Still, he had a few envenomed tips left. He hoped it would be enough. "Natasha, take a crossbow and three quarrels."

"But that's not as much fun!"

"You can take out their eyes." After pointing that out, her face lit up and she ceased complaining, even going so far as to sheathe her knife in her sash. He decided it was best to decline from speaking when she started saying 'pop' over and over and giggling. He didn't want to dampen her enthusiasm, after all. Yeslick gave him a strange look, to which he only shrugged. If he ever got out of this alive, he wondered how on in the realms he would explain _this_ to Vai…

Turning to see she had hitched her robes up to her hips and was treading over the corpses barefooted, kicking them with her toe and squealing in delight only reinforced that thought. Part of him wanted to clasp his hand over his eyes and only watch with one between two fingers. She had started stomping on one's broken throat now. How _was_ he going to explain this?

Maybe it would be best if he didn't explain anything at all. Yes, avoidance seemed best.

Natasha sucked on her finger. She looked pensive, he decided, as he glanced at the bodies around her. Was she… sitting on someone's lap? Should he even ask? Then he caught sight of the man's head lolling back, a bloody grin etched across his throat. Well, that was one way to take down a fully armoured man (sans helm). Two others lay on the ground; one's eyes were missing and the other… dark ichor from between his legs. How… pleasant.

Inwardly, he wondered how he would ever control her outside the mines if they ever survived past it. Cutting her down in cold blood seemed… just wrong, somehow, and he couldn't very well order her to kill herself. Still, the 'knights' were taken care of. Asking her to behave 'as she had before' while stressing her obedience to him seemed to have worked. Strange how he had not even heard the knights cry out. Now all he could hear was the dwarf's rasping breath; he was driving himself too hard, he had been starved for too long; he should have insisted they ate… …and the soft humming as his little sociopath rocked back and forth. Well, she seemed happy enough. The real challenge lay just ahead…

Rising to her feet, Natasha greeted him with a chilling smile, and dipped her head, "My lord," she purred, her eyes alive with a sickly sweet intelligence, "These are dispatched, as commanded. How else may I serve?" The vacant expression left as he stepped into the chamber; she sounded as she did when she interrogated him…

"How far to Davaeron?"

"A little way," icy indifference and disdain rolled off her tongue, "just down that corridor. Shall I go to him?"

"Will there be anyone else with him?"

"Just that boy he keeps around," her sneer held more contempt than all her previous words put together, "his 'apprentice'."

"How old?"

"Fifteen? I did not bother to ask." Idly, she examined her blade and licked the tip of it clean, "I will dispose of him too."

"No… I have questions."

"He will know nothing I do not."

"Even so –"

"If it is your wish, my lord," Smiling prettily, she curtsied, "then I shall obey. Come, the chamber beyond is… clean of this filth." Contemptuously shoving a corpse to one side with her boot, she marched on.

"Yeslick – check them and catch up. Bring anything of worth that won't slow us down."

"Aye laddie," the dwarf no longer panted, but fatigue was setting in heavily. Too proud to say otherwise, they both knew he would not last much longer without rest.

As he followed Natasha into the room, her knife sang towards him. Throwing himself to one side, his blade raised to impale her, he hesitated. Her eyes were fixed on something behind him. Single-mindedly, she retrieved her knife from the forehead of a man. Shaken in spite of his elfin nature, he studied the man; he was dressed as Tranzig, in the guise of a merchant. So… a messenger? Natasha was calmly wiping her blade; the man never even had the chance to scream.

"My thanks…"

"I live to serve," Her smile was back, but her eyes never left his. "I will fetch the boy now."

"If you see Davaeron–"

"His life is mine."

He nodded.

While Yeslick dragged the latest corpse away by its heels, he scanned the room. A few crates lined one corner; he had narrowly avoided crashing into them; a bedroll on the other side and a weapons rack above it; a barrel in a corner, a desk in another, a locked strongbox… what was this place? An office of sorts? What sort of office held spears and broadswords?

A brief searched revealed little; he did not care to try his luck with the strongbox. More than likely, one of the 'knights' would hold the key. Extinguishing the candle, the only source of light in the room, he sighed. Best the boy did not know what awaited him. But… he couldn't kill this child any more than he could that servant girl. Guards who abused their slave-miners were one thing; bandits who preyed on innocents another, but… this? There had to be a better way…

The cold logic remained silent in its disapproval. He knew what it would say: leaving foes, no matter their age was a mistake: even a child could plant a knife in his back. Children grew up, and the adult that replaced it would hunt him. He knew it was right, but… he still could not bring himself to… What about himself? The cold logic silently mocked. Had it not been he who had grown from a child to a youth; now an assassin sneaking into the very lair of his foe, a trail of blood left behind him?

He had no answer.

He still had no real plan. How was he going to destroy Davaeron? His musing was cut short by a grunt, as a boy was shoved before him. In the doorway, Natasha's leer was a menacing silhouette. Quivering, the boy spun around and snapped at her, "I did nothing! Why did you drag me out here? Master will be furious if he finds I'm not studying–"

"That, boy, is the least of your worries…" She stepped into the room, "turn around; there's someone here to see you."

He almost tripped over his robe as he did. "Where? I don't see–" he gasped as the candle was relit, "An… elf? Here? He's armed! Natasha, what's–"

"Silence!" She hissed, striking him around the head, "speak when addressed."

"Ye-yes, ma'am."

"What's your name, boy?"

"Stephen, sorr."

"Tell me, Stephen, where is your master?"

"Elsewhere; I don't know. He just told me to study."

"I see."

"Is there anything I can help you with? I doubt I can tell you anything Natasha hasn't already – wait, she said she brought you to see _me_?"

"Yes. She tells me you've never met one of the fairfolk before."

"Well, once maybe, but not up close. Is it true-" He glanced at Natasha and closed his jaw.

"I'm here to deliver a message from your master's employers."

"Oh, you're from the Iron Throne? I didn't realise elves were interested in that–"

"Oh yes, you will find we are quite, quite interested. Iron is the lifeblood of the region after all."

"True!"

"So tell me, lad, what are you studying?"

"Oh, tomes mainly. Master sets me lots of history to read; some necromantic lore, but mostly dull- er, that is, dry."

"Ah."

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised; he _is_ an archmage after all. One of the best in the Swordcoast," he announced proudly, then drooped, "he's really intelligent and demands high standards, so I try my hardest."

"You seem an avid student. I'm sure he must be proud."

"I hope so." Stephen looked away, "His tongue stings as much as his rod, and I'm rather forgetful, so I'm not sure he is."

"So what has he taught you about his employers?"

"The Iron Throne? Not much; I just know that there's a branch in Baldur's Gate, and that he speaks with er, what was his name? I'm sorry; the head of it. Maybe Natasha–" He fell quiet again.

"Nothing more? I'm disappointed. I shall be having words with your master."

"No wait, please don't! I can tell you about the shipments of iron and our supplies! I know the tallies and numbers, the number of guards we employ, our…" he trailed off, "but that's mostly the mine…"

"I need a detailed report on that. Where do you keep your written accounts?"

"Oh, er, just over there, behind you."

"Very well." Allowing the boy a small nod, he continued, "I am glad to see that your youth is not wasted. You will make a fine asset one day."

"Thank you sorr!" He all but beamed.

To himself, he wondered why he had not questioned Natasha more; there had been no time. There was nothing left to do with the boy now… unless…

"I have grave news," He told him quietly, "of the most dire nature. There is a traitor in our ranks, Stephen."

The boy's eyes widened.

"We will be closing the mine temporarily until he is found and dealt with."

"But sorr, if we do that, our supply – the shipment…"

"It has already been decided." Meeting the boy's gaze sharply, he leaned in, "How loyal are you, Stephen? Do you know what we do to traitors?"

Trying not to tremble, he shook his head as the security of his world fell around his ears.

"By the time we're done, they're begging for a long and lingering death. Do you know what my role is?"

He shook his head again, this time taking a step back – into Natasha. She caught him and held him; there was no way he could see her eyes dancing in savage glee.

"I… interrogate them. I seek them out, and when I suspect them, I put them to the question. Did you know," A smile played across his lips, "that the… darker fairfolk have spent millennia developing ways to keep a person alive unable to even scream as they writhe in unspeakable agony? I know these techniques, techniques that will leave you broken in mind, in body… in spirit." Deliberately taking his time, he laced his fingers and flexed them, "So Stephen… how loyal are you?"

"I – I – I'm no threat to anyone!" Unable to take a step back, his stammering was accompanied by a look of wide-eyed terror. "I'm telling the truth–"

"Do you know what I am? Do you think you could _lie_ to me and I would not know?"

"I'm not lying! I'm not! I swear by any of the gods, anything – I'm not a traitor!"

"Pathetic." Inwardly, he released a pent up sigh of relief. The concept of murdering this… child or 'putting him to the question' revolted him to his core. Or it should have done. Part of him felt only numbness, the icy chill of necessity's grip: it may yet be needed to take the boy's life. After all, the logic warned, he had seen his face. To leave alive a liability… no, fear would keep the boy in check. Until someone he feared more came along, the quiet voice persisted calmly. Would he extend his power and test its limits? Would he put his will to controlling _both_ his puppetess and the boy? Did he even need to use such force; was he not persuasive enough to cow the boy into submission?

His answer angered the voice; in the still, it demanded if he was prepared to take such a risk: even a boy could wield a knife, and it took but one in his back to slay even him. There was almost a sneer; not so much at him, but at his objections: the argument was circular and raising the same protests wasted time. It would be his death; there would be no funeral, and his remains would be defiled. It would be on his head, the voice warned, and fell chillingly silent.

The quiet was broken only by the stifled half-sob of the boy as he stared at him trembling. In the reflection, he saw his own his gaze; elfin and cruel in their ruthlessness. Was this who he was? Unflinching and without mercy? His own eyes were alien to him. "Stay here. I shall return to deal with you shortly." He held up a forefinger, "Shift even an inch and you shall be begging for the tender mercies of your master's questioner."

Was it possible for the boy's eyes to grow any larger? Any more and they would drop out, surely. He didn't let him reply, but strode past him, the dignity of arrogant disdain clothing him more naturally than his own garments. The most disturbing part was the absence of inner protest. He would have to examine this development later.

"So," drawled a heavily accented voice, "while the rest of the hunters chase their ever elusive prey, you slither right into my clutches, entering my lair as bold as day. Do you even realise the extent of your folly? Your meddling means nothing, whelp."

A dark robed, dark haired, clean-shaven man stood before him in the very centre of his private solar. A distinctive scent masked his narrow features; perfume laced in silk. His gleaming skin was faintly olive, oiled and smooth. Everything about him was well kempt; neatened to perfection, as if the dust of the mines was a personal affront, and a foe never permitted to breach his person.

"You were by no means unexpected. Ah," his gaze flickered over towards the door, "Natasha, how good of you to join us. You are just in time." A cruel smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, yet it never touched his astute charcoal eyes. "Do be a dear and… show our guest," his lips thinned, "our hospitality. I suggest," his words cold, he brazenly brushed off the potential situation as calmly as if they were having a discussion over lunch; "you surrender your arms."

Behind him, he felt Natasha withdraw her usurped curved blade and in spite of himself, his shoulders tensed. There was something enchanting, bewitching about the man's words; the smooth, oily melody held him… then darkness. Slumping to his knees, he felt his eyes roll up in the back of his head.

"A most belated response, Natasha. You, my dear, are growing slack."


	24. Cloakwood & Dagger, part 13

When he awoke, the first thing that assaulted him was the dull throb in the back of his head as he groggily attempted to focus his vision. After several long seconds, it cleared. Before him, lay the carpet at eye-level. Ahead, and slightly to the side, the master of the mines slumped in a crumpled heap, his throat torn out. To his right, the was the overwhelming stench of scorched flesh; it wasn't him, he knew. He could feel his limbs, digits and the rest of him… part of him didn't want to move. The greater part struggled to. The heavy tread of boots settled in front of him and a heavily accented voice breathed, "I thank ye fer me mine, lad."

"Yeslick? …What happened?"

"Ah, that be a tale, lad…"

As he looked up expectantly, he felt the dwarf's boot press his head back to the ground.

"Not so fast, laddie," his words were soft, the tone changing from the dwarf he had known before; there was something… a dangerous undertone, one he could barely make out; "ye've taken a mighty knock. Ye'll nay be movin' fer a time."

There was a pause.

"Ye nay recall ta battle?" The dwarf leant in, his boot-heel bearing down on his temple. "Yer Davaeron lies dead yonder an' yer lassie too. Oh aye, t'was my axe tha' ended him. Most put out with ye, he was. Ordered ye all strung up on ta rack. Ye lass dinnae take kindly ta it, an' went fer him with tha' knife o' 'er's."

Another pause, his words musing this time, "Funny tha', she be 'is an' then she be yers. What foul magicks did ye bewitch her with, elf? She wers no match fer Davaeron's black sorcery." The dwarf spat. "I hafta admit, I was surprised her screams dinnae wake ye. 'E was a cruel one, but he fergot about me." His boot pressed harder, "Which leaves me with an interestin' dilemma, lad. Who be ye really?"

He groaned.

"Nay feelin' talkative? I has a few ways of loosening ye tongue meself. I nay take kindly ta liars an' traitors. Which one be ye?" His face pressed down, "And nay be thinkin' I'll be lettin' ye witch me; I'll rid ta realms of yer infernal magicks 'fore ye do, warlock, so have a care how ye answer. So who be ye really?"

"Yeslick, I–"

The boot ground his face into the dirt, and fury flared within. The cold logic was seething. How _dare_ a runty dwarf step on him so? Destroy him! It hissed, drain his life and restore himself! He fought the voice down. "Let me explain – please… it isn't – this isn't what you think!"

Why was he pleading? Was he truly so weak his eyes were watering? Did he actually _like_ the runt? He shook his head, "I'm an agent of the Flaming Fist; I've been sent to investigate these mines – Yeslick, please, listen to me; there was a camp in Larswood forest housing the bandits that have been preying on the roads for months – I'm not some dark sorcerer–" He heard himself gasp as the dwarf applied more pressure, then eased it a little.

"Who's ye commander? T'ain't no elves in the Fist." His words were heavy with suspicion.

"I'm in the employ of the Fist." He took a deep breath, "I'm headed to meet up with them; come with me–"

"It could easily be a trap, lad. Ye take me fer a fool? Who be yer commander? I'll nay ask ye again!"

"I won't reveal their names. If I wanted you dead, I'd have left you to rot in the cell; or I'd–"

"Yer makin' threats now?"

"No; let me up."

"No more orders from ye." Reaching down, the dwarf twisted his arm behind his back, "I'll have ta truth from ye yet!"

"Yeslick – I'm not…" Despite himself, he felt the growing fury rise within him, "Release me now, dwarf." His words were cold, deadpan. "Do not make the mistake of believing I am in no position to harm you, should I so choose. Before your axe could cleave my skull, you life would be within my grasp."

"Yer bluffing! I'll skin ye–"

"Care to put that to the test?" Reaching within himself, he pushed through the taint and into the depths of his inmost being; the well of his divine power. The golden nimbus shone like the light of the sun; molten fire, it glowed. He seized it, touching but a slender strand; the thinnest thread. Lacing through his fingers, he turned it on the dwarf, twisting from his hold and turning it back upon him. The essence sought to connect, coiling towards the dwarf's very life, seeking to drain it. He held it back; halting it.

Rising slowly to his feet, their eyes met and in the reflection of the other, he saw his own were edged with a golden glow, yet a veil of dark ichor covered it. Terror stared back at him. As he spoke, the very tone of his words changed, "You will cease this folly and hear what I have to say, dwarf."

"What be ye? Demon! Hellspawn!"

" _Silence!_ "

The air stilled, having trembled at his fury. As it settled, the glow faded from his eyes, "I am Aurifyr. Without your aid, I could not have achieved victory here today; for that, you have my thanks. However," His gaze bored into the other, "never threaten me again."

"Ye never needed me aid…" Yeslick drew back, "What manner of being are ye?"

"I am an elf, scion of the Eladrin. High, or grey elf in common tongue."

Still shaken, the dwarf nodded; the disdainful cloak of arrogance he wore was within keeping of his kind, he realised with an inward sigh. "I have not harmed you, nor have I any intention of doing so." He let his hand drop, waiting to see if Yeslick would swing the axe at his unprotected side. Gentling his tone, "You have been a worthy ally, and I would hope, a friend."

Studying the silent dwarf, he allowed, "Do not let us come to blows, not when we have survived through this." His tone hardened, "I intend to search this place, sink it and leave. You're welcome to travel with me, and I will take you to my employer in the Fist."

"Nay lad," his words were oddly troubled, his eyes never leaving his for a second, "Ye'll nay be sinkin' me mine. I dinnae reclaim it just ta see it lost. Ye'll nay be takin' what be rightfully mine."

"Those who controlled this place will send more and everything we've achieved here will be for naught. I cannot allow that. Once they have been dealt with, once they have been eradicated, then the mine can be exhumed; it was drained once, it can be drained again. Do not do this, Yeslick."

"It would take months, lad, and more coin than I can afford ta give."

"The Fist would compensate you; enough to restore this place–"

"Can ye guarantee that?"

He said nothing.

"Then we be at odds. Draw ye blade an' be done with it. I'll nay be travelling with a demonspawn. Yer no elf; ye has the reek of foulness above ye. It covers ye; even I can sense it. Ye defile the mine o' me ancestors with ye mere presence."

"This is folly! Let me take what I came for and leave. I vow only to collapse the entrance; the mine need not be flooded at all."

"It be ta late fer that lad." Yeslick regarded him almost sadly, "I see ye fer what ye are now; I allowed one evil ta enter me mine, but a greater evil be before me. Fer ta sake o' the realms, I cannae let ye leave here."

"Don't be a fool! I could destroy you and your mine; this isn't worth your life! Please, just listen to yourself!" Why _was_ he pleading? He had known the dwarf only hours, if that… but he was. To have come this far. Then realisation struck; "What was it you saw? What was in my gaze?"

"Death, laddie." The dwarf replied slowly, softly, with the calm of one already resigned to their fate. "In yer eyes I beheld death. In ye be ta destruction o' ta realms if yer not slain before ye unleash yer true power."

"I… can't convince you."

"Nay lad."

Closing his eyes briefly, he sighed, "Finish it, then."

"I'll nay cut down an unarmed man, even if it be as tainted as ye. Draw yer blade."

…So he did.

When the red haze cleared from his eyes, he found himself standing over the bloodied dwarf's still-warm form. A single, clean thrust, and his blade had parted the chainmail, slicing through it as easily as if it were paper. The axe's swing had never reached him, clattering to the ground before it had reached half-way. Instincts honed by the darkness within had taken over, and he had reacted before he realised; the monster within had claimed him, merging with him, becoming one for the fraction it had taken for his supernatural speed and strength to slay his… friend.

It was over before it had started; ended, as instinct took over will. His sword hung limply in his grasp, as part of his mind recanted the events, recoiling at the violence. His free hand reached up, and found his eyes were dry. Why wasn't were there no tears to shed? Why could he not express his grief? Inwardly, he wept, mourning its loss. The greater part of him felt nothing, but deep down, a small voice rejoiced: he had done well.

He turned away in disgust, but even as he did, he saw the coil of gold had not left his arm. With the unspoken knowledge it was unseen by mortal eyes, it spread out, threading through his arm, overlaying his veins. It glowed briefly, then faded to a dull throb, the black ichor pulsing through it. It was knitted within him now, and thin though it was, it was there to stay. He was connecting to his core, harnessing the power that was his by right: he was becoming what he was always meant to be.

There was no turning back.


	25. Cloakwood & Dagger, part 14

He felt more alive than ever, and yet, deader than before. The deadness held within, forming an ever growing chasm; an increasing void that could not be filled by any power he possessed. It had been the place of innocence, murdered when he had accepted his heritage.

Turning from his dark thoughts, he scorned the melancholy; it was useless to mourn, and foolish to dwell on the past. He could never change things, only alter the future, perhaps. Yeslick had been right, and his axe should have slain him… but he had never stood a chance. Unable to will himself to turn his blade on himself, the knowledge that there were others such as him out there had stilled his thought long before he had ever reached with his hand.

He was alone now, truly. The dwarf had not lied; Natasha, what had remained of her, was gone, as dead as Davaeron, as dead as Yeslick… as dead as the hole within her last master. He had led her to her death; she had been on borrowed time even before she had laid eyes upon him. Redemption had been denied to her.

Standing within Davaeron's library, he considered the extent of the damage; the wreckage he had caused within her mind, reducing her to a childlike state. Briefly, he had wondered if he could restore her, perhaps turn the very life-essence he had drained into life-giving, using the source to restore as it had restored him. But it was too late; she was gone, and while he might pull her spirit back from the nether, had he the power to restore her mortal body? It had been badly damaged, broken beyond all mortal repair… and yet, he carried the essence of a god within.

It was her mind, however, that concerned him the most; he had fractured it, shattered it: what he had wrought had caused it to splinter into fragments as readily as if he had taken a hammer to a vase. He had used too much of his power; a cord no thicker than half a finger and yet, it had broken her. What had remained was but a shadow; what he had commanded of her 'as before' was nothing more than an echo of her ghost. But even had she survived, he questioned, could he have released her? Not in such a state; perhaps it was a mercy she had fallen. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to believe it.

With each use, every time he exercised his divine essence, he was taking another step down this path… and only darkness awaited him. The taint was strong, almost too strong, always willing him further down… waiting for a chance to consume him. So far, he had resisted, but his control was slipping. All he had achieved was to turn a sentient being into a living weapon; a weapon that fought – and died – for him. Yet, what was the real difference between her and him? He was the stronger.

His thoughts turned to Yeslick. He had left the dwarf where he had fallen, in the middle of the hall. When this place was sunk, the waters would eventually dispose of the bodies. Yet, part of him questioned the need; would it be of benefit to keep the mine open, but to operate it from under the Fist's control? Had they the manpower? Nashkel would slowly renew the region's iron, yet, there were crates and crates stockpiled here. Enough to provide for a small city! Yet to leave such a treasure unguarded… he could collapse the entrance, as he had vowed to Yeslick.

And then there were the surviving miners… if they ventured down here, he might have to wade through a field of corpses anew. Current market value aside, there was enough wealth down here to spark off a riot. The books alone… he perused the shelves. Black sorcery, necromancy… infernal, foul magicks; rituals and pacts. The knowledge contained within was dark and dangerous, and yet, not all of it was wicked. How had Davaeron fallen so easily? He must have studied these tomes… yet, for all that, he had been caught off-guard, taken unawares – he glanced around; no, he was still alone. It was nothing. – and he had procured the archmage's spellbook. It would be his most prized possession, containing forbidden knowledge within; knowledge he might never acquire elsewhere…

He leafed through a couple of pages, eyes drawn to the arcane symbols. There was power in this tome. He knew better than to read it aloud, and yet, as he traced one such symbol with his finger, he knew he could master it. The power contained within could be his, bound to his will, bound to serve him. He need not learn or even exercise every spell, but knowledge of such dark arts was its own defence… he seized it.

Of equal importance, and perhaps value, were the letters he had found. Contained within Davaeron's personal chest, they revealed his plans, but more importantly, his masters. A link to his employers, the same organisation that controlled the bandit camp. The Iron Throne.

Other books, he gathered also; ingredients, components used within ritual dark and foul… all this, he gathered and placed within pouches, placed within his satchel. He could not take all the books, for even with magic, it was impossible to transport an entire library upon one's person… yet the rarer, most prized tomes he claimed.

To see three walls, separated by two shelves, all as high as his head lost saddened him in a way he could not explain. Perhaps it was his roots, his origin… the tomes reminded him of 'home'; no, he corrected himself, the place he grew up in was no more home than here. His childhood was lost, taken from him before he had drawn his first breath; it had been an illusion, a dream, like so much else he had believed and held true.

He examined the pommel of his now-clean blade, and glanced around at the amassed tomes; knowledge had forged his blade, and with this knowledge gained, his blade would cut through far more than this. He strode from the chamber and did not look back.

Out within the hallway, beyond Davaeron's personal chambers, he paused over the corpses again. In her hand, the creature that was Natasha still clutched the wickedly curved blade she had adored so much. For a moment, he was tempted to take it. About to leave it, a voice chided as he stepped half-way he would require such a blade, stained with the blood of others. He was, after all, it mockingly reminded, intending to study the darker arts. Such things would require sacrifice… be it of himself, or of others… and he wouldn't want to taint his pretty little elfin blade, now would he? He stepped over it, and walked on, chilling laughter echoing in his wake.

Whimpering caught his attention; hunched in the corner, a figure stood trembling. He had almost forgotten; Stephen. Wide-eyed, the boy pleaded silently with him, imploring him as he begged for his life; it was written across him as clearly as if it were spelt out in the sky in fire.

The voice within mockingly inquired if he intended to murder this young lad too; or would he show mercy, nobility, and allow the liability to live. Scorn etched its words and angrily, he snapped with a coldness not his own, "You'll live out your life as a commoner; a peasant, keeping far from the ranks of merchants. You will go and live within a village, settle deep within the Swordcoast and tell no one of your origins, or your connections here. Is there anyone you care for?"

Stammering, the boy sheepishly admitted there was a servant girl he liked and who liked him. She served with the cook.

It was likely the girl from earlier, he realised, "Take her, and go. Leave this place and make no mention of it: your very life depends upon it. Should you be connected with the traitors here…" He watched as the realisation sunk in, "you shall be called one day. I expect you to be waiting for that call. My mercy does not come without cost. There is a price and your obedience is but part of it; you may live out your life, begin a family, but you, or your descendants will answer this, my call, and when it comes, you shall serve me. It may be tomorrow, or it may be next year; it may be within their lifetimes, but they are not to forget it. You are not to forget it. This is the oath I require for your life."

His eyes flickered; he did not have to mention the consequences should the boy refuse. "Hold out your hand." The elfin dagger flicked out and scored across the boy's palm, and then his own. "Your bloodoath."

He received it with apathy; the chills that ran down the boy's spine meant nothing as he clasped hands with him and felt the essence within himself bind the oath. "What magic is this? What manner of sorcery –?" Stephan gaped, as he felt the binding take hold. He turned without smiling, "Pray you never know."

Within him, the voice's laughter echoed.

As Stephan scurried past him, the sick realisation set in: he had just bound another life to him. Had it been worth the cost? Yet a gaes was the only way of insuring his silence… how had he even managed it? He did not know; the knowledge had arise as he scanned the tomes. Muted dread arouse; the other miners, they would not harm him, surely? He was but a boy. He shook his head; he should rest, but he could not, not here in this place.

Slipping the riverplug key into his hand, his blood cooled against the metal. Wrapping the chain around his wrist, he toyed with it as he mused over his plan once more. He had fulfilled his vow, and taken the key off Davaeron's still-warm body, tearing it from his neck. Now, all that was left to was open the plug… and let the mine die with him.

He cast a final glance at the stockpiled crates in the other chamber. It would be such a waste… perhaps… the miners? Could he convince them to move the entire room… his eyes flickered beyond, to the library, and perhaps… to pack away the tomes. He felt his gaze light with greed, then reason returned: where would he store such a vast library? He had no place to call his own. No, it was best to abandon this place… he was loathe to. What if… he were to seal this level? It had been dug last and the stairwell's doors were carved from rock… a final security measure for should the slaves rebel. If he were to flood the rest, perhaps… he might return someday. The more he thought on it, the more he liked it. Yes, that was what he would do. It was decided.

Now to face the miners or their guards. Whatever little remnant remained, that was.


	26. Aftermath of Slaughter, part 1

_Aftermath of Slaughter_

Lost beneath the churning waters, the torrent rose with the shaft propelling the platform on. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the elevator ground to a halt, and then it struck him. He cursed; how had he been such a fool? Davaeron had been a necromancer. Why had he not thought to dispose of the body? As a powerful archmage, he should have expected his foe's spirit to hover… still, even should he return to haunt the living, he and his corpse were sealed in a watery tomb. Unless drained from above, the sheer pressure of the waters would crush any who opened the stone door from within.

He sighed.

The riverplug had been a complex mechanism of cogs and gears; only a small shutter had been opened, not enough for him to dive through. Even if he had made it to the surface, which was doubtful, the chill would have rendered him helpless. No, not only the rush of the waters would have driven him back through the hatch, who knew what creatures lay within the lake's murky depths? Yet for all that, he could not silence the nagging doubt it might have been better to take the watery route. If any lay in ambush… he was going to walk right into their trap. Well, he would find out.

If it were any solace to his troubled conscience – what remained of it – at least all of the slaves had got out. Ironic that the very alarms he had sought so hard not to trigger would serve as a beacon to usher them to safety. Truly incredible what a few well placed wires and bells could do.

The entrance to the elevator was as he had left it, shattered crates, the still-present signs of his struggle… nothing it seemed, had disturbed it. Shaking his head, he stepped out.

A feral roar greeted him. Cruel golden eyes stared down at him. Sheathed in scales more dark than night, the winged serpent regarded him coldly from above. Venom dripped from its open maw, glistening from the hedge of spears contained within.

Over the wedge-shaped head, a barbed tail swished angrily; the stinger easily dwarfing him. The thing was the size of his arm! Beating in time, its wings flapped in long, lazy strokes, the very ground pressed flat by the downdraft. Their span alone must have been eighty feet! Weren't wyvern's usually fifteen feet? This one must be sixty! It must have weighed four tonnes! What in the realms was a beast four times that size doing here?!

He took a step back, his mouth dry. The chill realisation that there was no way out filled him; the deafening finality he was trapped… that this would be his end; he had damned himself. There was no way out, and there was no way to defeat such a beast. Then it hit him; the smoke from the guardhouse must have alerted it. He had been the architect of his own destruction; while he was fooling around deep underground this _thing_ was waiting… watching for anyone who would escape. It would have snatched them out of the sky as they emerged… the miners… Stephan, the girl… all his good intentions, his attempts to save them… dashed. It had all been for naught.

Grief covered him; he would never see Vai again, or find the source behind all this. He would never wreck his revenge upon the Iron Throne… that no longer seemed to matter. He would die here, alone and forgotten. It was too late for regrets; too late to wish he had heeded Vai's words and stayed within the Friendly Arm. Too late to have gone with her. This… was it. What choice had he? Destiny had left him coming up short, laid low before the might of such a terrible beast.

The elf's spirit had been right: it had all been in vain. All he was left with was how to meet his doom; at least he had that. He would meet his father soon. With that, the threat of despair left him, dissipating as a cool sense of calm settled upon him, covering him as a cloud. Apathy was his mantel; there was no room for fear in the heart of a child of a dead god.

 _Good_ coaxed the voice, all pretence gone. _Embrace your power. Before the end, become the avatar of death you were always meant to become. Fell this beast with you as you fall._

The cold logic was right, he realised, but he turned from its promises. If he would fall, he would fall as himself, far gone as he was.

 _Fool_ it screamed. _Will you die like this? Reduced to_ this _?!_

He ignored its taunts. Quietly, within the shadow of the shack, he strung and warmed his bow. Invisibility would be useless here; like all dragonkin, wyverns could track by scent. Sighing, he sunk down on the same crate, that only hours before, he had slammed into. Taking out a whetstone, he smoothed it along his finely wrought elfin blade. Blood had sheathed its steel more times than he cared to count; after today… would it ever take another life?

He glanced up; overhead, the beast still flapped. If he wasn't driven back, his arrows most certainly would. Even if he could get off a single shot, could it fell such a colossal… how had it even grown to such a gargantuan creature? Questions… always questions, and none of the answers mattered a whit. He had nothing left that could save him. There was nothing within Davaeron's spellbook or within the tomes he could put to such use.

Padding himself down, he secured his belongings and glanced outside. The first rays of dawn had crept over the forest canopy, flooding the sky in a blaze of brilliant orange. It was time.

Levelling his bow, he half drew, stepped out, pulled back and released. The arrow was knocked aside before it could even reach its mark. Notching the last of the envenomed heads, he sighed and shot again. The silent knowledge that the spider's venom was useless did not matter. The beast had not even noticed; a second downward flap brushed the arrow aside as well. He sighed, and drew his sword in resignation. As he moved, the resulting flash of steel got its attention.

As it sighted him, he saw hatred in its gaze. It knew he had nowhere left to go; it would hunt him, its prey. Victory shone in its yellow orbs as it viciously brayed its challenge. He took another step forward; the creature waited, toying with him. It would swoop down and try to snatch him, he knew. As soon as it had caught him, the wickedly barbed tail would strike and finish him off. It would play with him; wyverns were infamous for their cruelty, delighting in tormenting their prey. Worse than a cat.

Another step.

It would wait for him; as soon as he was away from the shack… for him to dive back under cover would infuriate the beast. He glanced around. No other bodies; where were the miners? Had the thing consumed them? No, there would be telltale signs; scattered pieces of bodies. Could they…? Could they really have escaped before the thing emerged? No, even if they had, it would hunt them; they could not last long in this forest. It would stalk them down one by one, if the spiders didn't get them first, he thought bitterly. It might have been kinder to let them drown. No, no death, not even being torn to shreds could compare to drowning. Once, he almost had. What would it be like to be devoured in those giant maws? Would it swallow him whole and let him slowly digest in its stomach acids, or would it impale him on those spear-like fangs and end it?

Another step.

That was five; almost… almost. There had to be a way out of this trap. He just had to think. He was almost out of time. One more step and… the miners… they must have taken another path; had he not seen a trail leading north? Away from the island; yes, that must be it, but how would that help him? Perhaps if he could escape long enough, he might hide – no, no not even hiding would help. There had to be a way to bring down this beast; maybe if he had a spear… its eyes, the inside of its mouth and throat... his sword could never reach it. Would it… wyverns did not have poor sight; they needed eyes like a hawk… if he couldn't blind it with arrows…

Angling the blade across his face, he tilted the flat towards the beast… Sunlight blazed across the steel, and it howled in pain and fury. Temporarily blinded, it shrieked a second time and breaking into a run, he threw himself at the still smouldering guardhouse. An heartbeat later, and he would have been impaled. Diving from him, the creature's massive talons reft the earth asunder, slamming into the ground at full impact. The beast veered up and spun around for another swoop, but stared, then shook its head in confusion. Unable to sight him, he hugged the wall, the smoke and heat distorting the beast's vision.

Conveniently, but not unsurprisingly, the palisade wall closest to the guardhouse had caught alight earlier; fanned by the wind, the blaze needed little encouragement. Charred and in some cases, reduced to ash, it fell easily enough to after a dozen or so solid plants of his boot. As the wyvern continued to search, he inwardly cursed, then praised Fate and Fortune that his satchel was watertight. It seemed he would get his underwater trip after all; hopefully the wretched creature wouldn't find him.

A distraction was needed… Crouching, he deftly broke off a shard of charred stake as quietly as he could and poked it into the skeleton's smouldering innards; the furnace of the guardhouse lit it up almost instantly and with that, it sailed in a streaming arc to the other side of the compound. The wyvern dived for it… …straight into the sharpened palisade. Impaling itself, the beast gave a cry of pained fury and pulled itself free, ripping its pierced flesh further. Ducking through the gap he had created, Aurifyr watched the creature stagger off, its flight lopsided, bleeding as it went. He knew it would not forget him. He was marked not just by assassins, but by a beast with enough intelligence to remember its vendetta, even if it forgot all else. Had only the injury been fatal…

He took a look at the water and dipped his boot-toe in. Suddenly, swimming didn't seem like such an inviting offer after all. No doubt the critter was still lurking around, but… He began to inch his way around the outside of the palisade, mostly on tiptoes until he got to the bridge-gate. Shaking his head at his stubborn refusal to do things the 'easy way', he weaved his way along the palisade-covering-the-bridge's knobs, pausing carefully between each step. He'd held off thanking Fortune for his life, and wasn't prepared to eat his words by slipping, cracking his head and drowning. Why hadn't he gone across the bridge? Aside from the obvious he'd be caught in a trap if there _was_ an ambush – by men…

Really, he shouldn't have survived and he knew it. Oh, how he knew it. The memory of Vai's face flashed into mind, just as he slipped on the last knob. Stumbling onto dry land, he caught himself – and his breath – before he went headlong into a shrub. Barely avoiding tripping up over the roots of a tree and smacking face-first into it, he had the good sense to glance up and check there were no more giant spiders waiting to pounce on him. When had he become Fortune's favourite child? There were none, and no men either! Remarkable. _And_ the palisade bridge gates were unlocked; both of them. Multiple tracks… the bared footprints of the miners? Could it possible be…?

Suddenly, he felt like laughing and crying; a strangled sob caught in his throat. This was no place to rest, but his legs would no longer hold him. Elfin or not, he slumped to the ground and found himself weeping. He was alive. He had survived. Somehow… he blessed Fortune, thanked Fate and would have kissed both of them, but for the dull, disapproving murmur in the back of his mind: he had not escaped yet. Resentful at being thwarted, the cold logic promised that more scrapes with death; he would not leave unscathed from all of them. Luck would betray him, as She betrayed all who trusted in Her. It was just a matter of time. He would learn, it smiled, and when he came crawling back… he would embrace his destiny willingly.


	27. Aftermath of Slaughter, part 2

When he finally picked himself up, it was as if his senses had sharpened, returning to their elfin keenness; the damp soil beneath him had left a smudge; he could feel it through his tunic; the cheeping of birdsong and shrilling of insects; the rustle of leaves on the trees; the coolness of the breeze on his face; the acrid scent of smoke and charred wood; the gentle lap of the lake against the shore. The world was animated once more… and he breathed it in.

The pounding of blood through his skull had finally ceased; he hadn't even realised it was there until it had gone. It was as if a lesser red haze had left his vision… and weariness filled his body; muscles ached and he felt chilled to the marrow of his bones. But. He was alive. He sucked in the air, caring not at its lack of sweetness as he tried not to laugh, a smile lighting his features for the first time… in a long while.

Alert as always, his senses began to automatically sweep the surrounding area, scanning for any danger, prepared for any threat, yet he hardly cared. One foot in front of the other; his body ached. A dull tingle deep within; a growing hunger. He would need to feed… and not just on mortal food. The taint within demanded life-essence, to drain another and replenish his power: how long did he intend to wantonly spend his own essence? How long did he think it could last? Did he believe it was infinite? No, he was spending himself, carelessly weakening himself; if he refused, he would fall more easily. He would need to feed.

He ignored it, silencing it with a thought; somehow, his will felt stronger. His divine essence, his well of inner power felt no more depleted than before, but that was at his very core; at the depths of his inmost being. He was still him. But a little beyond? He knew it was right; already, he could feel it beginning to wane. The cold logic seemed more subdued; if that was what it took… yet, it cautioned: could he truly make do without it? Even if he tapped into his own lifesource, it might not be enough. It would slowly kill him if he kept spending without replenishing. Weakening himself beyond the point of repair would be his downfall. He _must_ feed.

Mockingly, it taunted would he have come this far without it? He would have fallen long ago; he owed his life, his very existence to his innate gifts, his heritage. To deny it would be to deny himself, and all he had achieved. He would feed because without it… he was nothing. His puny magicks, his pathetic sword skills; all were nothing. He was no different to any other mortal; he had no great feats to boast of. Only his essence marked him as different, set him apart… …gave him the edge. He could not achieve his goals without it. The whispers faded, only lingering smugness remaining.

He didn't care.

Looking around, he caught sight of a bird bathing itself on the lakeshore. Some swallow of sorts, he expected. For some reason, the simple act of cleansing struck him as beautiful. The voice spat back spitefully that it was not as easy to wash the blood off his hands. He smiled at the sight, much to the voice's ire, and inquired where the swallowhawk was to prey on it. The logic fell sullenly silent. The trees were magnificent too, he acknowledged, glancing up and smiling as he felt the sun's rays break through the canopy to brush his face. It was wonderful to be alive and appreciate life in all its loveliness. Only death was ugly.

Taking offence, the voice goaded that he spread more death than any one of these living things; he would bring more death, suffering and chaos than any mere mortal. _"LA LA LA"_ he thought back, childish impulse seizing him, _"I CAN'T HEAR YOU. Life is… beautiful."_ Disgusted, the voice left him alone, vowing his dreams would be anything _but_ pretty that night.


	28. Aftermath of Slaughter, part 3

The forest glade was quiet; mercifully so. The chirping of insects and song of the birds was a welcome murmur, adding to the chorus of rustling leaves. More dirt than stone, the once cobbled path had long since been reclaimed by age, the forest leaving the impression of ancient ruins. The caravans' tracks were easy enough to follow, and the recent stampede of slaves even more so. Small wonder they ran given they finally had their freedom, and then the appearance of the wyvern. At least he was on the right path. After being below ground for so long, somehow, it was a comfort; given enough time, once abandoned, nature would reclaim civilisation.

Inwardly, he chuckled; he sounded like a tree worshipper. Right now, it didn't matter; it was just nice to feel the sun on his face, breath fresh, clean air, and inhale the rich, earthy scents. Funny how he missed the little things, but then, he had never spent long in the forest, at least, by comparison. Even his simple pleasure at being alive did not make the stench of the fauna any better though. He wrinkled his nose; he felt a sneeze coming. Pine-nuts were one thing; fox scent-marked shrubs were something else. His stride lengthened, his stroll quickening by a fraction. Pushing himself was foolish; his bruised and battered body was in no condition to rush, but it was dangerous to remain here. Two hours since the wyvern and he still felt battered and bruised. The path led on.

He froze; what was that, up ahead? A stir in the breeze? No; a figure, beneath the shadow of a tree. Watching. Waiting. Was it… cowled? The cloak, he understood, but the hood as well? He felt himself reaching for his blade and stopped himself. The figure had not drawn steel; nor would he. From across the broken road, he stared; the figure did not move. Heartbeats turned to moments, as he examined the stranger. There was something… the figure lifted his head, and for the first time, he realised what was under the cowl. "You… you're one everyone's hunting. That 'elf'." He heard himself say. The other's eyes were cold; dead, and met his icily.

"You are the one the scum," A human might have spat, but not he; the figure remained deadpan, "speak of with their dying breath." Without pausing, his eyes glinted, "You appeared from nowhere and the roads are afire with word of your deeds."

Surprise took him, despite himself. "What deeds do others speak of? Who speaks?"

There was no warmth in the other elf; only the same unfeeling chill, "The dead speak. Those you have blooded your blade upon, those whom you have buried your arrows in; they speak. The survivors whisper of a figure, an elf; a shadow; hooded and cloaked. They speak of vengeance you have denied me."

He froze; the other's words as quiet as when the other first spoke them, yet the calm was gone. Burning wrath lay behind them; barely concealed under the surface. The cold logic smiled to itself; this one burned for murder. That was all it lived for; simply a hollow, empty shell. Resentment and the desire to inflict death was all that drove it forwards. It could hardly be called a sentient being.

"You deny stealing my vengeance? I have stalked the bandits that plague this region, biding my time; picking them off one by one. It was my time to strike and _you_ denied me! Two days; just two more days! Everything was ready, but when I arrived, there was nothing. Nothing but the burnt out husks of their pitiful shacks. All that remained were corpses. The one I hunted for so long, took such pains to reach – and you snatched it from me."

His voice was one of low fury now, tortured frustration taking his tone, but the chill remained. His face was still a twisted mask of calm. "I tracked the survivors. Hunted them as prey. They spoke of you." The last was nearly a snarl, his teeth bared with silent accusation; judging him, damning him. "Do not think to appeal to our common blood 'brother'; there is nothing you can say that will stay my hand. I will take the vengeance you stole from me, but it is only right that you know _why_ ; that is the only reason you still draw breath. Pray the gods shall show your wretched soul mercy, for I shall show you none."

He felt himself take half a step back; "How did–"

"How did I find you? Do not mock me, boy." A cruel light entered his icy eyes, speaking far more than if a sneer twisted at his lips, "Did you think you could enter Cloakwood unnoticed? That your blood would hide your passage? To a," this time a sneer did touch his lips, " _human_ they might have, but to one of us? You're sloppy. The spider was pathetic; you leave trail of smoke wherever you go." His eyes hardened, "That wyvern should have ended you."

Another time, he might have quipped about 'then you would have to have gone after the wyvern'; but this was not another time. "I was not alone in–"

"Oh, I know that. I saved you until last."

"You murdered agents of the Flaming Fist?!"

"How does it feel to have your hope taken away? Can you understand; the only thing you live for, yearn for. You breath it, eat it; every moment, waking and unwaking – and you snatched that from me. You cannot possibly compare the lives of mere humans to that. Only one of our kind can truly understand."

"If – why didn't you approach us?!" Fury was blindsighting him; he was being baited, taunted he knew. He felt the now-familiar bloodlust course through his veins; the 'killer instinct' arise within. It would not be long before his blood was braying for the other's to be spilt before him. With each word the other spoke, the cold logic simply stared at him; waiting to see what he would do, somehow knowing that he wasn't sure if he even wanted to hold back. "If you had – lives – but you don't care, do you?"

"Why would I? Why should I share my revenge? It is mine."

"I had thought so highly of our kin, but now I wonder. Now I question just how 'noble' our people are–"

"Silence!" The other spat, "You know nothing of what you speak."

"Are your actions any different to the humans?! You would even slay one of your own–"

"Your words hold no meaning; you stall your death. I will hear no more."

As the distinct sound of steel being drawn rung in his ears, he found himself reflexively drawing his own. "Tell me why," he could barely withstand the pounding between his skull; his blood was not just throbbing, it was hammering away. His vision was turning red. Even if he wanted to, he wasn't sure he could see through the haze. "What drove you to such–"

"Fool! My life, my soul, taken from me! That which I held most dear; there was no other like her – she and I were one! We were joined; our bond was nothing any lesser than our blood could even begin to comprehend." He advanced, his eyes filled with pain and hate, "They caught her, these men you killed. In front of me they defiled her! Their deeds are unspeakable! When they finally finished, death – death was a blessing, a mercy!"

Overwhelmed by grief, he raised his blade, "And their leader – he watched as I was forced to watch, laughed as I was bound helpless; I cursed the day the fiend was born! I swore I would take his head, avenge her – but _you_ ; _you_ denied me even that!"

"And now you would turn you steel against one of your own." He felt his words chill, as any compassion he might have had evaporated; the other took another step forward: only a five paces separated them now. There was madness in the other's eyes; he was no longer listening, beyond all care. Driven beyond all reason, the crazed elf brought his steel to bear; the resounding clash rang through the forest, scattering the birds.

Aurifyr found himself forced back; an almost berserker rage had consumed the other, but he still wore his mask of calm. Before the sheer might of the two-handed swing, his boots slid; it took all his strength to block, and the other began to hammer away; beating down his defences. There was no finesse or grace; each blow resonated with deadness, sorrow, and grief. Within a matter of seconds, he found himself on the ground, able to count the heartbeats before the blade descended and struck away his guard.

Even as his back slammed into the broken cobblestones, forcing the wind from him, the cold logic surged through him, searing him with condemnation. Here, as he drew his last, would he allow this – this _shell_ to end him? Was this _judgement_ what he wished? To fall to another; condemned and damned; did he think that this was _justice_? Perhaps he deserved it, for what he was? Even Davaeron, as twisted as he was, was more alive than this – this existence – that stood over him.

 _Pathetic_ , the logic spat, _utterly pathetic_. If he would _allow_ this living wraith to end him, he did not deserve to live. He had not used even a fraction of his gifts; where was his sorcery? His vaunted magicks? He had not even _tried_.

As the other's broadsword arced down, the logic whispered there was no justice in this; no mercy within his executioner. This was not righteous; it was murder. This avenger was not slaying him for what he was; he was ending him for being in his way. Deny it all he wished, but this time, he was innocent. The words struck him sharply; for all its cunning and machinations, the logic was right. Encouraged by its victory, the logic quietly added that he still needed to feed. He rolled, kicking out with his feet.

The broadsword sliced into his flesh; half severing his arm. Screaming as the other brutally planted a boot in his ribs and tugged the steel out, something greater than the pain overwhelmed him. With a speed he did not know he possessed, his free hand shot up and seized the other's wrist. Wrenching to one side, he pulled the other down beside him, breaking his grip on his foe's broadsword. Even as he did, he felt his power lance out, latching onto the other; threading in invisible veins and leeching his very lifeforce from him.

The red haze grew thicker, until all he could see was blood. His pulse thundered and with each throb, he felt renewed, revitalised, as if a reservoir was being refilled. The current grew stronger; steadily siphoning more and more; as the other grew weaker, he felt himself healing, until even the bruising was gone. It was… ecstasy. A flood of relief; of pleasure, all of his senses alive, so alive; as if he had sight beyond sight, the world becoming so much clearer; so – it halted, abruptly, and the other elf slumped, drained almost completely. Why had it stopped?

He frowned; then saw the dying light in his foe's eyes. A feeling of revulsion poured through him; what had he become? What was he doing? To feed on the lives of others; using their lifeforce to fuel his own abilities. He wanted to vomit, but… he felt too detached. It was horrifying, sickening, and it was natural. It came as easily as breathing. He had filled all he needed and more; he was empowered, stronger than before. Would it fade? How much could he store? He felt alive; power lacing through his fingertips. His gaze snapped onto his dying foe. "Was it worth it?" He heard himself say, "This – needless waste."

"You… what are you?"

He had no answer.

"A last…" gasped the broken elf, "dying word from one brother to another." His rasping was shallower now; he was clinging to his last shreds of strength, as if, for the first time, clarity had entered him overcoming his bloodlust, "It was not I who slew your 'friends'. The human inn – you will see soon enough."

The unspoken question of 'why' must have been clear; the other's mouth still moved.

"You – released me. My gift – my thanks–"

And then he was gone, his head slumping forward. As the light left his eyes, Aurifyr felt rage spill through him. He felt the other's spirit begin to leave; it would take so little to snatch it and hold it; interrogate it until it provided answers. The other had spoken truly, he knew; truth had a distinct ring to it. Concern warred with rage; what of Vai? Of the others? Were they? He needed answers – he stared at the dead elf. No, he wrenched himself back, binding a spirit was wicked; the head of the other elf in his pack was one thing; he had not slain him, but this? To defile – no, it was wrong. He refused.

The cold logic simply smiled at him; no words were necessary. The unspoken taunt lingered as he pushed himself to his knees and began to rifle through the other's belongings.


	29. Aftermath of Slaughter, part 4

Dusk had fallen. As the skies streaked with scarlet, broken rays flooded through the forest canopy. A peace had settled, somehow tranquil in spite of the earlier bloodshed. His pace had quickened; the air was warm and still, and not even the insects had dared molest him, but his mind was fixed ahead. The ecstasy had faded to a lingering buzz; the sensation of it no longer at the forefront but had cooled, leaving a scope of awareness keener than what he was used to. It had felt as if he could reach out with his mind, his will, and snatch the wills of lesser beasts, binding them to his. He might have been able to, he conceded, but he had no use for such foul magicks; he acted only as necessity dictated. Anything else was an abuse of power.

Despite his attempts to assure himself, Yeslick's words rang in his ears: _"Then we be at odds. Draw ye blade an' be done with it. I'll nay be travelling with a demonspawn. Yer no elf; ye has the reek of foulness above ye. It covers ye; even I can sense it. Ye defile the mine o' me ancestors with ye mere presence."_

His own protests sounded hollow, even as he recalled his pleas; his feeble efforts to prevent bloodshed. Despite his words, despite his power, it had not been enough.

 _"I see ye fer what ye are now; I allowed one evil ta enter me mine, but a greater evil be before me. Fer ta sake o' the realms, I cannae let ye leave here."_

 _"What was it you saw? What was in my gaze?"_

 _"Death, laddie. In yer eyes I beheld death. In ye be ta destruction o' ta realms if yer not slain before ye unleash yer true power."_

Angrily, he shook the thought away. The cold logic watched in silence.

 _"I'll nay cut down an unarmed man, even if it be as tainted as ye. Draw yer blade."_

Forcing his mind to stop, he inhaled deeply; no, guilt would not overwhelm him. _Murderer –_ Yeslick's dead eyes accused him from within; he rebuked it. It was not murder. No more so than when he was forced to slay the elf. _But you didn't just slay him,_ Yeslick whispered, the accent gone, _you drained him of his very essence._

He did what he had to do, he thought back calmly.

 _And then you striped him of his possessions. Nothing more than a common thief; a grave robber. In war, they hung looters; who would visit justice upon him?_

 _I took nothing–_ He protested.

 _You took his life. Surprising you did not take his head and claim the bounty._

 _Begone. You're not Yeslick._

The voice's mocking laughter echoed within. The manifestation of the dreamself formed and faded, but the cold logic said nothing.

The warmth of the air no longer comforted him, the now familiar forest replaced by a chill he could not shake off. He continued down the path.


	30. Aftermath of Slaughter, part 5

A scream. Hissing. Buzzing. The impact of flesh being punctured. Buzzing. Thud. Thud. Chittering. The scurry of arachnids fleeing. Hissing. Silence.

Lowering his bow, he emerged from the trees. A second scream; the servant girl from the mines, the cook's assistant, still in the same rough spun dress as before. In her hand, she held a stick; nearby lay Stephen, a blooded sword beside him, two giant spiders with arrows protruding from their eyes and an ettercap staggering away, an arrow through its throat. It was waving off another spider. He raised his bow, notched, drew back and released. The girl screamed a third time, and the ettercap crumpled. Two more arrows finished the last spider. The sight before him paled in comparison to the slaughter within the mines, but the fear within the girl's eyes was the same: recognition, terror and hatred.

Ignoring her, he made his way past the still twitching spiders; caving in the arachnid skulls with his boot as he did so; and crouched beside Stephen. Running his eyes down the young man, he studied the bite marks: poison. It had nicked his hand, but otherwise, he was unharmed; it was only a small amount, but already, the youngster was unconscious. Studying his veins, the elf shook his head, and murmured almost to himself. When the girl did not respond, he glanced up and repeated, "He is feverish." Scanning the trees, he added with a sigh, "We should leave. The bodies will draw other predators."

The girl tightened her grip on her stick, never trusting him even for an instant. Stiffly, she held herself, her gaze tight. As he rose to his feet, she raised her branch defensively.

"Here, help me move him." When she did not move, his own eyes narrowed and he spoke in carefully controlled tones, "Do not try my patience girl; I am in no mood for it. I spared you down in the mines; do not make me regret that decision. If I wished you dead, I would have slain you already; I am not here to hurt you. Put that down and come over here right now."

Fiercely, she shook her head.

"So help me, girl– if I have to come over there." Inhaling sharply, he snapped, "I haven't the time for this; do you want him to live or not?"

"Yo-you can't be trusted!" Quivering, she dug her heels in stubbornly, "You – you murdered the guards!"

"I freed the slaves; this is _not_ a debate. Put the stick down this instant, or I will take it from you. This is your last warning; now come here." His eyes flashed, "I won't tell you again."

Taking a hesitant step towards him, she froze as his gaze never left her, then took another, and another… and flew at him, her stick raised in one hand; catching her wrist, he spun her around, twisting sharply until she dropped it with a cry of pain. Her other came up, the glint of steel flashing as she tried to plunge a knife into him. Knocking it aside easily, he tripped her, sending her sprawling. As she recovered, he raised her stick in his own hand, and advanced menacingly. She dove for the knife; moving quickly, his boot clamped down on it before her hand could reach it.

Throwing the stick to the ground, he stared down at the girl, a cold, controlled anger rising within him. As his expression retained its mask of calm, only his eyes betrayed glimmers of his true feelings; hers rose to meet his, terror overwhelming her fear and hate. "Tell me why," he heard himself hiss, "I shouldn't –" his sword was in his hand before he realised; her gaze grew wide, tear-filled – he caught himself; the word 'end' dying before it left his lips; what was he doing? The sword lowered, "I warned you," he snapped, more angry at himself for almost losing control than anything she had done; not that she knew it, "do not test my patience."

She nodded fiercely; her entire body shaking as she lay before his feet.

"Get up." Hauling her by the arm to her feet, he sheathed the blade, "That's twice I've spared you," His gaze never left hers, "many would not be so forgiving." He released her and removed his boot from her knife. "Watch him," Not bothering to even look Stephen's way, he calmly made his way to the fallen spiders, "I will be with you shortly."

Crouching, he with drew his own knife. Harvesting arachnid venom sacs without a second thought, he paid no heed as the girl turned away in disgust. He could afford no revulsion, he realised, as he cut his way through the squishy membrane, splitting the beast apart. No, it would take more than just innards to faze him. Steam and stench arose, as the creature's fluids gushed out. Delicately extracting the venom gland, he held it up on the tip of his dagger, inwardly shook his head and withdrew an empty bottle from his satchel. If he had the time, perhaps he could distil a more potent poison. Rising, he moved onto the next.


	31. Aftermath of Slaughter, part 6

"Ex-excuse me?"

He looked up; the ettercap had nothing of worth on it. Even from ten paces, he could taste the rancid stench from it. Carefully, he replaced the bottle, sealing it tight. It had only taken a few short minutes. "Has his condition worsened?"

She shook her head, "No, but… I…" she had replaced her dagger, and stared at him, biting her lower lip. This was the first time she had spoken since he had released her. "I… how did you know to find us?" There was a hint of accusation in her tone, "hunters do not carry their bows strung." Folding her arms defiantly – or was that defensively? – she hid her nervousness behind her demand. Unable to match his gaze as he met her look, her flickering eyes gave her away. He did not ask how she knew such things.

"I was hunting," Allowing a small, rueful smile, he sighed all too humanly, "there was a deer – a fawn, actually. And well," Adopting a slightly helpless, slightly sheepish, shrug, "I've not eaten in a good while. Before I could skin the beast, I heard you and Stephen up the road. It should still be there."

"Oh… you killed it?"

"I had been tracking it for the better part of an hour; I was fortunate to come across it."

"But… why? You could have just left us…" She bowed her head; obviously it was bothering her. "I…" she swallowed and raised her chin, "I never thanked you."

"I was not about to let either of you two die; not when it could so easily be avoided. Your thanks are welcome, but unnecessary. I do not care for these arachnids, nor for ettercaps; they should know better than to prey on sentients." He paused, "We need to move soon; other predators will be attracted. Help me lift him."

"But what about the fawn? Where are we going?"

"To find the fawn, and a place to rest. I doubt," he cast a glance up through the trees, "travelling at night would be the wisest course."

"You…" She glanced down, "you'll stay with us?"

"I'm not prepared to let you two foolishly wander off and die."

"You really mean that?" Her voice was very small as she studied him and then her feet. Looking up at him expectantly, she opened her mouth – only for him to cut her off.

"Yes, I really mean it. Now, come on."

Within half an hour, there was a fire blazing and the fawn was roasting. To one side, Stephen lay unmoving under the blankets. Sat across from him was the girl; cold and concerned she tried to warm herself in front of the banked fire. Some way off the road, they had been fortunate enough to find a rocky outcropping and shelter beneath it; the weather might not turn ugly, but there was always the chance of the wyvern returning. Running his hand through his hair, Aurifyr felt himself tire; despite the life-energy he had consumed, his body still required rest. "How is he?"

"Feverish." The girl replied, looking up, "His skin is clammy, cold. Will he be all right?"

"He should be. I hope." He felt himself sigh, "This will take a while to cook. We're lucky I was able to bleed and open it up before the pred–" Stopping midsentence, he frowned, "What's wrong?"

She shook her head and refused to meet his eyes.

"If something is troubling you…"

"I…" Eventually, after what seemed like an hour, but was actually closer to five minutes, she wet her mouth and ventured, "Where is the dwarf and – and –"

"Natasha?"

She nodded.

"Dead. Both of them."

Her relief was painfully obvious.

"I wouldn't have let her hurt you." His gaze flickered towards the flames, "those… the guards were not innocent. Perhaps not all of them were thugs, but not a one was innocent. If they were… I'm sorry, but the mine needed to be sunk."

"Sunk? You drowned it?"

"Yes – didn't Stephen?" Seeing her shake her head in awe and wonder, he answered her question before she could voice it. "The river. There was a dam; I opened it. I tried to ensure everyone got out." Pausing, he frowned, "Stephen never told you?"

"No… he… just that we were to leave. He marched up to the miners and took me off their hands. He seemed scared, but no one dared challenge them. Most had already left. There were only a few… some were trying to loot the place. There was nothing worth taking. Even some of the guards simply ran. Those who were not dead." The last she said bitterly. "Why did you do it?"

"It was necessary. I… am sorry for the loss of life. You had friends in the guards?"

"Not as such. They were… lewd, crass. Most just wanted me for… I'm no harlot." She sniffed, almost indignantly, "the cook might have given them to me, but I wasn't the only one. Those were up in the guardhouse."

He felt his face drain of blood.

"Or in the barracks. There were three besides me; to help in the kitchen. We didn't get a night off. Most of the men there just wanted satisfaction." She watched the flames too, "Stephen didn't. I don't know why he came for me."

"He likes you." Lifting his gaze, he studied her blank expression. Her features were drawn, haggard. The day's events had taken their toll. "I take it… you did not return such?"

"Well, he was rarely around, see. He's a sweet boy, but…" She sighed. "always studying and scraping for the Master–"

"Davaeron?"

She nodded. "–and _her_." She shivered, "You know, _his_ woman. Who you…"

"Natasha."

A second nod.

For the first time, he realised she couldn't be much older than Stephen. Maybe a couple of years? "There was someone you liked, wasn't there? In the guards."

"Sort of. He… wasn't like the rest. Young, but not as young as Stephen; sure he drank and laughed with the others, but he wasn't cruel, you know? Most of them weren't, just… rough. Hardened." She sniffed, "T'weren't what you'd call 'good' but… they weren't so bad, not all of them. Just trying to make ends meet, some of them. Can't have the life of a farmer, craftsman or merchant for everyone; what with the raids an' all, it was safer to be a mercenary on the other side, if you know what I mean. Not that I'm saying what they did was right; slavery ain't, an' nor killing innocents, but they weren't murderers. Some where, but not 'im. What other prospects d'you have? Caravan guard? Most of 'em are dead. Town guard? Flaming Fist takes that; nobleman's? Not everyone can be that. What work have they got left? You take a job where you can."

"Is that why you did?"

She shook her head. "I didn't have a choice. I'm from Beregost, see. Well, not originally, but close, and well… I was brought here with the rest of the slaves. See, the caravan raids weren't just for ore an' not everyone was killed; just some, I think. Not too many women on them either, so those that were were put to work as… 'housewives for all'."

"Who said that?"

"Some guard who was in charge for a while… before Davaeron caught him stealing. _She_ saw his screaming didn't end for days. No one dared steal since."

"How long were you there?"

"I… don't know. A year, maybe two? A few months? The only way to keep track was with new food coming in, and that came in every so often."

"The raids have been going only a few months…"

"Like I said, I don't know." She sighed, "I guess I should thank you. Gods only know how long I might have been down there otherwise." Biting her lip, she asked, "Davaeron's dead, isn't he?" At his nod, she continued, "They all are, his lackeys; the higher-ups he had. You killed them." There was a note of hesitation, confirmed by a second nod. "So why… why leave Stephen?"

"He's a boy; I'm not…" he was about to say 'murderer', he realised, but knew inherently how wrong he was. He had murdered, and would do so again. "a–" Monster? That was a lie too. He sighed, and began anew, "I'm not without a heart. I don't want bystanders to get hurt. I know he was involved, but… so were you. Neither of you deserve to die for the actions of others."

"You're not exactly innocent yourself."

Her soft words stung; she was right, he knew. He couldn't justify it. "I'm not," he agreed quietly, "but this couldn't be allowed to continue."

"And you decided to be the one to end it?" She bit her lip as she stared at him; aware that he could easily take offence.

"I…" Would he claim he was an agent of the Fist? No, he was here on his own; that was a feeble defence. Would he claim he was hunted? The girl already knew too much. It was already unwise to allow her to live, but he was not prepared to silence her. Such weakness would be the end of him, the cold logic pointed out silently. "I could not sit idle."

"I never saw an elf before you," Lowering her gaze, she whispered, "You're nothing like what I expected. I didn't expect an elf to care about 'human affairs' or to…"

"To?" He gently encouraged her.

"To be so human." She coloured, "I mean–"

"No, it's all right. I… understand." Shaking his head, he banished the memory of the 'duel' he had fought. Still so fresh in his memory, it threatened to assault him. He was no more elf than she was, he reflected bitterly. If she knew the truth… Ah, but she didn't, the logic whispered, and she would not. If she did, then he would really have no choice but to silence her. In such a case, death would be a blessing, or would he bind her with a gaes? The very thought made him shudder.

"I… still don't know your name."

"Aurifyr." He felt himself smile. It was still a lie, but it was the name he had chosen to wear; it was his. One day, it would not be a lie. That, the logic added, was the biggest lie of all; he was deceiving himself. He would learn, soon enough. He could not change what he was, nor escape from it any more than he could flee his own shadow. It was folly to believe – to even wish – otherwise.

"Mindy."

He raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Malinda."

"For a–" The corners of his mouth rose, taking any edge off his words, "–servant, you seem remarkably well spoken."

She shrugged, "My family were merchants." Her face darkened; he didn't miss the 'were'.

"I'm sorry."

"T'wasn't your fault. Father – he – Mother warned him that travelling was dangerous, but he wouldn't hear any of it. See, he was one of these types that liked to oversee things personally. He'd ride with the caravan master and… we weren't big, but we had a few. Enough that Father hired help to… we had five. Guards, hired hands, drivers… we – we were travelling together. From Amn – we should have gone by sea, invested in shipping, but piracy plagues the coast, and at the time… there are always bandits, but we should have had enough. We didn't travel in convoy either; Father felt it would be too large a target so we travelled in pairs. I… I don't know what happened to them. Mother… she was with him; I was with my brother."

He remained silent; what could he say?

Tears welled at her eyes, but she shook them off, took a breath and continued. "He took an arrow almost immediately; there was nothing I could do. He shoved me down and… the fighting was brief. It only took a few deaths and the rest threw down their arms, or fled." Bitterly, she wrung her hands, "It was over in a few moments. We rode straight into an ambush. Father should have hired scouts. Maybe we were betrayed? I don't know. They knew exactly where to find us. I guess it was a well used route. I… thank you for listening. You're the first I've told…"

"Sometimes it helps just to have someone listen." His own words were distant to his ears; he had no one who he could tell. Vai would listen… but after she had? He felt a wave of melancholy wash over him. He was not like them; the cold logic was right. He could never be like them. Mundane, weak, prey to those stronger – that was what the logic had told him from a time that seemed an age ago. It was no less true now than it was then. Despite himself, part of him… was glad. To be set apart was to be alone; that he did not care for, but he would not trade it if it meant being captive to the whims of others, to be under the thumb of those who would chain him and use him for their own ends. He almost laughed; bitter irony. For all his desire to be free, he was chained more tightly than the girl before him. That was, after all, what he was: a slave. That was, what his power made him; borrowed. This taint. This… he turned away from such thoughts; the girl was staring at him.

"Aurifyr?" She hesitantly began, "Are… are you all right? Your eyes… they…"

"I was just thinking," he waved it aside, and forced a smile, the warmth returning, "I did not mean to be so distant. I apologise."

"You know…" Chewing her lip, she offered, "If you want… to talk, I – …if you want."

"I appreciate it." Pausing, he glanced up; the wind was picking up. Sheltered under the rocky outcrop and even with the fire, the chill reached them. She wasn't used to it, he realised; she was doing her best not to say anything, but she was hugging her arms. Pity touched his heart, and compassion surged through him. Poor thing can't have been used to it; the mines had been damp in places, but her bunk would have been dry. Before he grasped what he was doing, he had slid his own cloak from his shoulders, traced his way around the banked fire and wrapped it around hers. Bright blue eyes regarded him, momentary confusion fading to warmth; feeling odd, he returned her smile and crouched down beside her; the fawn was ready.

After they had eaten, the tasty juices wiped off their chins and the rest of the meat wrapped within cloth, Malinda reclined against his shoulder. Silence reigned between them, each lost to their own thoughts. At some point, he wasn't sure when, his arm enfolded her as they sat together wordlessly.

Eventually, awareness drifted to dreams, and in her sleep, she snuggled against him, falling deeper into his arms. As she lay against his lap, he cradled her instinctively, sharing her warmth and wondering, mulling over their words. Was Stephen still right for her? He was no longer sure. Her words rang in his ears; not all of the guards were murderers. It may have been necessary to drown the mine, but he had been the invader. Had he waited, could there have been another way? What about those he had condemned to a fiery death? Had their number included innocent young women, like the one before him?

The memory of smoke and burnt flesh filled his mind; the image of the burnt out building, with the knowledge of the corpses within from those who wished to kill him. Would he have chosen differently? He had known at the time the cost might include the price of innocents. His hand ran through Maldina's soft, golden hair; would he have condemned her to such a fate? Knowingly? She deserved better. How many other Malindas were there out there? His thoughts turned darker; what sight would greet him when he returned to the Friendly Arm Inn?

He would find out. Yes, the cold logic whispered, those responsible would pay. The self styled avenger would deliver his justice, swift and final. Just like a paladin, the dreamself laughed.

He did not revive that night.


	32. Aftermath of Slaughter, part 7

As the forest finally broke, giving way to grasslands, hills and plains, daylight flooded the weary travellers' eyes. After slogging for, what felt like weeks, but in reality only a few days, the trail led them through the last of the wood. As the trees parted, they spied the main road leading to south Beregost and north to Baldur's Gate. Along the way, they found no sign of the escaped slaves, beyond a stampede of boot-prints. It seemed that they were following the hidden road in force.

Three days before, they had left the broken cobblestone road, choosing not to cross over the small river and head north, where the main river that enfolded the great city of Baldur's Gate would be. It might have been quicker to cut across the bank, or perhaps, see if there was a jetty and possibly boat along the river, but the path would no doubt be watched; given the choice, he had weighed his options and chosen to led Stephen (whose fever had broken) and Malinda through the forest, veering south and coming out half way between Beregost and the Friendly Amn Inn, near to where he had entered all those days ago.

The forest had come more easily to him, once he had gained a feel for it, and with his elfin senses attuned, he had led them as if one born to it. Rarely stopping, except to rest and eat, few words had been exchanged; both humans, unused to such a pace, were too exhausted. Somehow, he had brought them through, finding game and preparing the banked fire. It came to him as naturally as breathing, leaving the pair in awe; awe that quickly turned to acceptance; and by the third day, they were happy to follow his direction.

He had rarely seen others sleep so soundly, but then, he had rarely set such a gruelling pace – he pushed them, but not beyond their limits. Footsore and weary, he knew they might have resented him, if not for the full bellies and warmth from the campfires he provided daily. Never were their waterskins empty, and their needs were provided for. Not a single denizen of the forest dared to hinder them for long, and those that did found their lives cut tragically short. The lumbering ettercaps soon learnt to steer clear of him; at least one allowed him to pass through its territory unmolested, perhaps in part due to the heads he collected. Five of them, on sticks around the edge of their camp at night seemed to do the trick. Carrying their heads was not the most attractive of tasks, but they seemed to get the message.

After ambushing a band of three of them, and playing 'forest sniper' on two more as they moved in on Stephen and Milanda, ettercaps ceased to faze him. After dispatching a few of the larger arachnids, the survivors found their would-be prey too strong a predator for them and any other forest creatures simply steered clear of the travelling trio.

The wyvern had yet to rear its ugly head, an increasingly growing concern in the back of his mind, and once they had finally broken through the trees, the rather nasty thought of having no cover he had been avoiding dawned. Faced with the thought of bandits or an overgrown and vengeful wyvern, he had decided the former was the lesser of two evils, if perhaps no less deadly, and thrusting a small pouch of gold – a veritable fortune – into a surprised Stephen's hands, he told the pair to make their way to Beregost.

He had always intended to leave them, but as they had parted ways, he found more than a pang of loneliness strike him. He had grown used to their presence and they to his. Eyes shining with unshed tears, Malinda had thrown her arms around him and pressed her lips to his cheek, begging him to come and visit. Stephen was no less shaken, but offered his hand – and found himself enveloped in a warrior's embrace. At the boy's side was still the sword he had fought off the spiders with; leaving a troubled Aurifyr silently regretting that he had not shown the boy how to wield it more effectively, but there had been little time and he had shown him what he could. Travelling had taken precedent; with the bandit camp broken, the roads to Beregost should be safer.

Neither had said a word about the gaes.

He had watched both of them leave. Perhaps they would be good for each other; they had agreed to stay together, at least. At any rate, Malinda seemed to be warming to the boy; upon the realisation that they had survived escaping the mines together, and his interest in her, she had taken his bashful, appreciative looks with a shyness of her own that had surprised all three. Despite that, he reflected, she had not forgotten the first night spent curled up in his arms, and knew that had there been more times, things might have been different between them – at least on her end. He would have to check up on them someday, perhaps when things weren't quite so dangerous. If he lived that long.

The cold logic was kind enough to inquire if he really thought he could be a parental, or guardian figure; did he really have the right, or the naivety to assume he could? If he survived – if –, what was to say he would even have the choice? Even if he did not lead more danger down onto them, he was better off separating themselves from him; leave them to their new life, lest he stir up the girl's feelings for him and shatter what might be a full and loving marriage. He was forced to acknowledge that as usual, the logic was right.

He headed towards the inn.


	33. Aftermath of Slaughter, part 8

_'Aurifyr? Where am I?'_

"You're dead." He said quietly, his tone oddly gentle, "I called your spirit back."

The sight that greeted him hours earlier was born of his worst fears. Grey skies had darkened the region, the rains putting out the smoke and smouldering keep, presumably before it could draw attention. The scent of burnt wood and stone filled his senses, but it was the half buried bodies, that truly turned his stomach. The entire courtyard was scorched; the keep its own pyre. After scaling the walls, it had taken him an age to sort through the rubble. The entire keep was gone; collapsed in on itself.

The stone wall that encircled the compound was untouched. Had he not seen the small whiff of smoke, had not know there had been a building in its centre, had not been greeted by the stench of charred wood, of flesh, it might have been pristine. The outer gates had been barred from the inside; somehow, he had pried them open. Irrationally, he had expected them to be open, hanging from the vast hinges. Barred from the inside. The knowledge would not leave him alone. Those who had done this had _meant_ for this place remain unassailable, impenetrable; that only those with a ram, or those who scaled the walls could get in.

From his perch upon the rubble, he stared out. Stakes, with corpses bearing Fist regalia tied too them; how long had they been there? He had not removed the arrows. He felt numb. The skies should have wept; why had this been allowed to happen? There were children mixed in amongst the rubble. The keep's doors had been barred; the platform leading up to it fired.

"What happened?" He heard himself ask distantly, dimly aware of the spirit he had summoned waiting patiently beside him. His voice was steady, but his body trembled; her unblinking gaze regarded him calmly.

 _'I don't know.'_ A flicker of sorrow passed across her ethereal features; a mere shadow of the emotions she held in life, _'Some men, ruffians by the look of them, came in. They stank, but didn't cause no trouble.'_

"How many?"

 _'Five, maybe six. They spoke coarse, not like you; I didn't want to serve them, but–'_

Her accent was muted, he realised; as if death had taken even that from her. Concern touched his own, "Did they touch you?"

 _'No, just leered, but I'm used to that. They didn't make no lewd comments either, well, one did and might have pinched me, but he was told to stop. By his leader, I guess. He didn't make no protest, beyond saying he was "just being friendly" and winked at me. Nothing unusual.'_

She was still speaking as if she was alive. It wrenched at him.

 _'It was after I'd gone to bed I heard the commotion. I don't know how late, but after midnight, I guess. I had an early night; I remembered I had to stitch a dress. It'd been on my mind since you asked me to stitch your robe. It reminded me of you.'_

She paused, as if sensing his grief, _'I don't know what happened, but lots of strange men waving swords and the like swarmed in. They hauled us from our beds, bringing us downstairs, nobles and peasants alike. They were slaughtering and raping those already there… an'…'_ For the first time, she hesitated, _'looking for you.'_

Outwardly impassive, he felt himself freeze up; the impact of the words struck him as sharply as if the wyvern's claws had impaled him. He almost wished it had.

When he did not respond, she continued, _'They dragged out the Fist and burnt them alive in front of everyone. Them they didn't kill, they fetched brands and demanded you. Some of them they cut, and those left shot.'_

"Did they…?" Staring at her, guilt washed over him. His eyes must have conveyed to her what he could not.

 _'No…'_ She shook her head. _'I… they were goin' to, but their leader said there was "no time", so they shoved everyone inside and barred the gates. He said he was going to send "a message"… they set the building aflame and everyone panicked. There was screaming. They threw torches in with us and stacked timber from the cowshed outside. I ran towards the cellar and hid. I thought I'd survive, escape through the cellar wine-hatch, through the back, but it was barred. I tried to bring others with me, but no one would listen. I guess the smoke got me.'_

"I… I'm so sorry. I… Gods, forgive me–"

She looked at him, regarding him gently. Her ethereal eyes held a tenderness his own could not. _'It was not yer fault.'_

"But I–" The protest died on his lips; they would have done this anyway: this was retaliation for the Fist's assault on the bandit camp. Had he not been part of it, this still would have happened. It brought him no comfort. Had he remained, he would have shared their fate. How had they learnt his name? He felt his voice harden, "What did the leader look like?"

 _'An orc-man. Tall. Broad, in plate armour an' a horned helm.'_

"Did you catch his name?"

 _'Tazok, I think.'_

His blood froze, and hatred coursed through him. Tazok… the leader of the bandit camp. There would be reckoning for this. He would hunt down this _orc_ , even to the very end of the realms.

"How many were there?"

 _'Maybe thirty? I don't know.'_

"The guards at the gate– I found their throats slashed; they must have been waiting until night and let them in from inside." His words were more for his own benefit then hers. "I… were there any survivors?"

 _'I didn't see any.'_

He swallowed. This was the most painful question of all; he had been avoiding it. "Did you…" He steeled himself. "Was Vai back?"

She shook her head.

"Is there… anything else? Do you have… family, or – is there anyone I could…" What could he tell them? That he had spoken with her spirit? That he had summoned her wraith back from the dead? That he had used her to gather knowledge on who had done this? That he was in part responsible for this? That he should have been here with her? "Or an offering… to – for you behalf –"

Her eyes were knowing, sympathetic even, as she raised a finger to her lips. All she desired now was peace.

"Thank you… Ris, rest now." He released her shade; as she began to fade, he whispered, "I… I will never – you shall never die in my mind; live on in my memories." He was unable to bring himself to ask if it hurt; there should be something… anything… he could say, should say. So many… nothing seemed enough. Nothing could make it right–

She smiled, slight but understanding. _'Farewell, Aurifyr.'_

There was no need to soothe her; she felt no pain. She was free from all of that, released from her pain. She would not rest uneasy; she was at peace. His words held her more comfortingly than if he embraced her; he could sense it: she had been happy to see him again. Glad… in spite of everything. Gods, did she even know what he was? Did she even understand what he had done? It hadn't mattered to her; she was pleased to see him one last time. To know he cared. To know someone cared. To know she would be remembered. He wanted to cry.

He held his head in his hands. Beneath him, buried deep, still hidden in the crypts beneath the cellars, the loot they had plundered from the bandits remained. Blood money. The price of Ris and the others' lives. They had not found it, not known about the secreted chambers beneath the cellar. Two full wagons had been the cost. He had not asked, but he knew. He knew. It could not fund their foul deeds again.

Where it had been had seemed so fitting at the time; that it had been stolen from the bandits' victims only to be taken off their murderer's corpses. He would have traded all of it to have even the life of one restored. The raiders had not even taken the nobles for ransom. He should have asked Ris for names… the lodgebook had been destroyed.

All that filled his mind's eye were the gold and jewels, encased in a vision of death. A bed of corpses lay before him; corpses he had slain, corpses that had died because of him, corpses that would die for him. It stretched on, and on, a mountain of the dead. Rivers of blood pooled at its base. Atop it sat a throne of wealth; all he had taken, all striped from the dead. It was crowned by a grinning skull. His own.

From somewhere in the pile, a skeletal Ris looked up and smiled.


	34. Aftermath of Slaughter, part 9

How long had it been? Two hours, maybe three? The skies had not let up in their gloom, echoing his thoughts. Pathetic fallacy was not something he appreciated, but if the weather heard, it ignored him. Ris' words kept ringing in his ears: _'looking for you'_

More assassins. Or bounty hunters. He very much doubted they would leave him alive. How had they learnt his name? Had they even called him by name, or called for 'an elf'? Had Ris mistaken him for the elf he had slain? More pressing than that, what was his next step; what could he – should he – do? Brave Baldur's Gate alone? Investigate the Iron Throne? Such a thing would cause a stir; he would not remain unnoticed. Behind every alley, as he passed every house might lurk an assassin… in such a place, ambushes were easy. Slipping poison into a drink; slitting his throat while he slept… if Vai was still alive, he needed to find her.

Almost absently, his hands moved to his satchel; pausing, he sifted through his possessions, mentally checking his inventory: bottles, some empty, some full, one with spider poison 'pickling' the venom sacs; wrapped in cloth the elf's head, ah, there, his scroll box and writing implements. Davaeron's spellbook, arcane tomes… There was more, but he wasn't interested in it right now; pushing aside various pouches, he pulled out the sturdy leather case and eased the buckles open. It had been a while since he'd filed anything, having all but shoved – abet carefully – the various letters he had acquired from his foes. Sifting through the documentation, he sat back and sighed.

Several moments passed before he began searching through the sheets again, all the time staring blankly at them. This was constructive, surely? To piece together… …what he had already grasped. He sighed and set it aside. Feeling more weary than he had in… he wasn't sure how long, he didn't have the heart to examine papers; he had already committed their contents to memory.

A grim thought struck him; these papers were the only evidence he had: if they were genuine and not forgeries, these were beyond worth. The ledgers alone – the amount of iron mined, the import of foodstuff into the mines; these figures could lead him straight to Davaeron's suppliers. Perhaps he should make copies of this?

Frowning, he rubbed his temples. The letters offered vague hints, but no real clues. Names leading to more names… who was Davaeron's superior? He scanned the letters again. Davaeron seemed to answer to one 'Sarevok', taking orders from the Iron Throne. Wasn't the Iron Throne a merchant cartel? Did Sarevok speak for all of them, or was he simply another pawn; a lackey within the structure? How high up was he – or she – ? It was unlikely this Sarevok was the leader, yet it was unlikely he operated on his own, or too far down the organisation; another lackey, then? More questions… how high up did this go? Why would a merchant company go to such great lengths to – the name itself suggested they traded in iron, and the stockpiled iron in Cloakwood and the tainted ore in Nashkel – but all this to gain a monopoly? Surely there was more to it than that; would it not be easier simply to buy out their competition?

Resigning himself to the fact that without more investigation, the knowledge he had would not fill in the blanks, he replaced the documents within the leather binder. None of it explained why he was being hunted. The retaliation for the bandit camp could be explained, but what of the hunters before that, down at Nashkel and Beregost? A case of mistaken identities? Was all it all just coincidence… or did someone other than he know what he truly was? Could it be one of his dead sire's brood, one of his own siblings, was aware of his existence and sought to destroy him?

It was a chilling thought. The implications did not bode well, and he had no organisation to shelter him… or to conduct strikes of his own. Gods, he swore, just listen to himself! What was wrong with him? To even consider seeking out and assassinating his own flesh and blood… …but then, he acknowledged silently, he knew the prophecies. He did not need the cold logic to tell him that. He knew what he was, and the destiny Fate had thrust upon him.

Both the cold logic and dreamself nodded in approval; he _was_ learning. Acceptance was merely the first step. Sooner or later, he would not only have to make a stand, but hunt those who would hunt him. If he did not choose the terms on which he faced his would-be stalkers, they would choose the terms for him. Predator or prey. He could not run forever. Sooner or later, they would catch up to him, and by then, it would be too late. The prophecies warned of this; he would be a fool not to heed them, to act on the knowledge Fate had given him. Not all of his siblings were given such an opportunity. His dead mother's words rang in his mind: _'The Children are not equal. Expect no mercy, for you shall receive none. When you face them, and you will, protests about "fairness" will mean not a whit.'_

His eyes closed. As sick as it was, he could not deny the truth. It was inherent; she was not lying any more than the cold logic and dreamself were. Why did he resist?

He could not bring himself to accept such a fate. Perhaps the dead elf had been right; maybe he was doomed.


	35. Aftermath of Slaughter, part 10

The clatter of hooves shook him from his thoughts. A sharp intake of breath caught his attention; aware of eyes staring at him, he raised his own. Down in the courtyard, an ashen face watched, reflecting back his own. A myriad of emotions washed over; grief, outrage, fury, shock… relief. Pent up anxiety; fears released, momentary joy overcoming guilt, before steadfast determination set in. A heartbeat later, all but the last passed, steel hardening her gaze. Whoever was responsible would pay dearly.

"Aurifyr," she called, her words betraying the pained relief her eyes held only a breath before, "You're alive."

"Vai…" Everything came crashing down anew; it hit him all at once. Their last meeting, their parting words… the mines, the guardhouse, his capture, the slaves, Davaeron… …the elf's words… …this, the ruin he sat upon. Forcing down the lump in his throat, his eyes flickered behind her. Her company of eight; where were the rest? They all bore the wounds of battle. More than one horse was riderless. His gaze snapped back; there was blood on her mail– "What happened?"

"Ambush." Spitting in disgust, "I lost six. Seems we didn't get enough of them." With that, she glanced around, "Is it safe?" At his nod, she gestured her men to dismount. Most were pale or wore identical expressions to their commander. They began busying themselves, securing the area and checking for signs of activity. Vai did not need to issue orders; they knew what to do. A guard would be set up at the gate; they would not be taken by surprise.

It crossed his mind that perhaps this was a less than elaborate trap, to lure them here, that those responsible for the slaughter were watching, waiting for their return… he caught Vai's look; in her current disposition, she might very well welcome an assault. Woe betide anyone who crossed her now.

She was staring at him, her eyes more thoughtful than not. Even mounted, the height difference between them was still considerable. Slipping from her own steed, she landed at the base of the rubble, the tread of her boots heavy as she began her ascent to his perch. When he didn't rise, she glanced around, surveying the scene as he had done hours earlier. Finally, she inquired, "What of you?"

"I wasn't here when this happened." He heard himself say, somehow, only able to meet her gaze briefly. Averting it, the weariness returned; he should step up and greet her, but he had not the heart or the energy. How long had it been since he had eaten? He wasn't in the mood. The mere thought of food turned his stomach.

"I'm… glad to hear it."

Her words caught him, and this time, he did bear her eyes. Quietly, ever so quietly, he confided, "Vai… they were looking for us."

"How could you know that?"

He shook his head.

"Aurifyr?" The sharpness, the incredulous tone changing to one of concern.

"We've failed these people." A quiet intensity filled his eyes, matched only by guilt, as he locked his gaze on her. "Your men–" he gestured without rising, "were executed. Look there; they were dragged out, burnt alive and shot." As she turned and looked, her face drained of blood. He continued in the same emotionless tone, "Some where put to the question first; over there, you can see the marks."

Pausing, he relayed, almost as an afterthought, "The gateguards had their throats slashed from the inside. The keep's doors were barred while it was torched. They spared no one. There are women and children amongst the rubble."

Nearby, one of her subordinates gagged; another breathed, "What monsters could do this…"

"Not monsters, men." Vai snapped harshly; the man recoiling at her icy tone and nodding. "Men wearing the skin of monsters are still men."

"I don't know where they went," Aurifyr heard himself continue, "I'm not that good a tracker. The roads…"

"Gareth," Her word was as sharp as whiplash; she did not even bother to look.

"Right away." Remounting, the iron-haired man wheeled his horse around and headed towards the gate.

"You too, Ric."

With a nod, the man joined his older companion.

"This was in retaliation." His gaze grew distant, then refocused sharply on her. "This could be bait to lure us here."

She said nothing.

He didn't look away.

Eventually, she began her descent. Before she had taken two steps, his quiet words followed her, "There were perhaps thirty. You can still see the tracks. After they rushed in, the gates were barred from the inside. I opened them after I arrived." The silence was broken only by the soft twitter of distant birds; all had heard him. "The ashes were still warm."

"Find a horse for this man," Vai commanded, without looking at anyone.

"Commander, if we resupply at Beregost the trail will go cold–"

"We're not going to Beregost," she snapped, climbing onto her steed, "Aurifyr, ride with me."

"Where were you?" Vai asked finally. As they rode side by side, neither had so much as blinked at the other. Outwardly calm, the duo's unspoken tension troubled even their warhorses; as if somehow, they could sense all was not well. Each ignored the protest, nudging the steeds forwards. A paw at the ground, a whiny or other sound was met by a firm slap of the reins.

After a few minutes, their long silence began to unsettle her men. More than one looked uncomfortable, and no one chattered. Every so often, a throat was cleared, or a slight grunt was heard, but nothing more. As Vai spoke, those immediately behind fell back a pace or two; already they had allowed more space than usual. Behind them, the rest of the column shifted uneasily. Ahead of them, the two trackers continued, seemingly oblivious to their commander's displeasure.

If either Vai or Aurifyr noticed or cared, they did not show it.

"I was investigating the mine." The elf answered calmly.

"You risked your life and the lives of others. You went alone, didn't you?" She snapped coldly, "Even after I explicitly warned you – I told you not to."

"I'm sorry." The words came more easily than he expected; too easily as he scanned the trees to one side. Neither looked at the other.

"I had higher hopes for you than that. I expected better. You're irresponsible and – I can't trust you after this."

He said nothing.

Silence reigned for several more long moments.

"…I'm glad you're unharmed." She eventually relented. "What happened?"

"It was as we suspected. It has been dealt with and is no longer a situation. I have retrieved the relevant documents."

This time it was she who said nothing.

More moments passed.

"Do you forgive me?"

"…No." She answered finally, her words just as cold as before, "You're not at all sorry and you would do exactly the same again."

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but there was no mirth in his eyes; only sorrow. "Perhaps not exactly, but that was not what I was asking you forgiveness for."

"Oh? Then for what?"

"For having to break trust and disobey your orders."

A long pause followed as she looked at him. Unable to find any trace of deception, she sighed, "Sometimes I forget, you're not under my command. I forget that you are not trained as we. I… understand your reasons and I might even have done the same myself, given the circumstances but–" her eyes blazed, "If you ever pull such a stunt again–" She took a deep breath, trying not to wring the reins in her mailed gloves.

Before she could speak, he interjected with forced lightness, "You'll take me by the ear and scold me something terrible?"

"And throw you into the deepest, darkest dungeon I can find!" She could not help but smile, even as she held herself stern.

Before either could say any more, Gareth called, "Fresh tracks, sir. They break off here. Half of them just stop."

Her expression faded, hardening instantly. "Ambush?"

He glanced at her, unsure.

She drew her sword, "Fan out."


	36. Aftermath of Slaughter, part 11

Amidst the shrubs and bushes, the beginnings of Larswood cropped out. He glanced around the carnage, sword still in hand. The steel drank deep into the blood of their foes. Closing his eyes, he winced; there had been no quarter asked or given, no mercy conceived or shown. Two more of their number had fallen; he should have urged Vai to fall back, but he knew in his heart she would not be dissuaded. Each death only fuelled her anger, her resolve. They were her men. He didn't know, couldn't know… yet he felt the same; felt each loss as keenly as she. He couldn't explain how, but as they fell, it was as if their life-force cried out to him: both allies and foes, gasping as they left this world, this life. Her eyes had hardened with each kill.

There had been twelve of them, archers and brawlers both. Without their scouts, they might have been taken unawares; now they only had one. Ric, the younger of the pair, had fallen, taking an arrow through the eye. A lucky shot; a tragic waste. The second had been a guard at the rear; his horse brought down, peppering the poor beast until it reared, crushing its rider under the weight. His death had been less instant, but swift enough. He sighed. Had they been fully fit, rested and ready, without prior wounds, would they have taken casualties? Twelve foes on foot were no match for armoured horse; yet even the strongest plate could not rule out a stray arrow between the eye; there were always weak spots, the joints, the throat…

The dozen corpses met his sight. It had been quick, brutal, final. He had not so much as taken a scratch; he had been lucky, his steel weaving in as though the blade were apart of him, sliding in under his foe's guard and drinking deeply. The throat of the first; the skull of the second, trampled under his steed's hooves. A single strike, and the man went down. The horse was a weapon in itself. Two more had fallen to Vai before he had slain the third, the rest falling to her men. Their eyes had held hate; recognition of whom they faced. If it were these that were responsible, their deaths were long overdue. Justice had been delivered. Somehow, it wasn't enough.

Tazok was nowhere to be found.

"Aurifyr," Vai called, "look at this."

Standing over one of the fallen, she stared down from her steed, "What is it you see?" he heard himself ask, "these men don't seem to be any different to those we faced at the camp."

"Do you not recognise the markings? They are from the same group. Gareth," she called, "Check there are no more lurking in the bushes. You two, see to our dead. Their steel is not to be picked by scavengers. Load it onto the horses."

"Vai," Aurifyr frowned, staring at the corpse, "Not all of them have the scent of smoke."

"You can tell through the stench?" Surprise, then she spat, "They have the stench of death on them."

"If these are not those we seek, there will be more ahead." He voiced his thoughts aloud, "We have six left, not including you and I. How many more–"

"We shall hunt them all, or fall trying, Aurifyr. There can be no other choice."

He inclined his head, "Then let us proceed. We shall flush them out of their holes." Neither needed to say that they would be at a disadvantage within the woods; the horses would hinder more than they would help. No one said a word, but silently readied their crossbows. As he strung his own bow, the elf gazed upon the distant wood he had hoped he had seen the last of. What if there had been more than one camp? If so, they could not possibly hope to storm it and survive.

If Vai had the same though, she did not show it, wearing only grim determination. She uttered a single word: "Forwards."


	37. Aftermath of Slaughter, part 12

fighting in war as you did. I had never thought them to be true." Clapping his shoulder more firmly, "You, my friend, are a constant source of surprise. Where did you learn to shoot like that? Who taught you the blade?"

"It… just felt natural." He shrugged, "I… just reacted."

Scepticism, then respect filled her gaze, "If all your kin are such as you, I pray we never anger them. No one I know could ever learn the blade in battle by instinct. No one, Aurifyr." Her respect deepened, "You saved my life – all our lives – a dozen times over. I don't know what we would have done without you, elf. I… suspect there is much you are not telling me, but keep your secrets. I am just grateful you have chosen to stand by our side."

He smiled. This time he was able to; she mirrored it.

"Commander," one of her men called, "Mortak and Tarrant have fallen."

Her smile fell. The mantel of command returning to her, she turned, "Let us leave this place. Gareth, you go on. The rest of you, tidy up here. Aurifyr, if you would please?" She waited for him, ignoring his awaiting look; "there are some tents. I would have my own rummage through them, but your eyes may see what they do not. After if you would fire them…?"

"Of course," he inclined his head, instantly knowing what she asked of him. "We shall repay their gesture in kind, and leave no trace of their camp – beyond a blackened scorch." He glanced at the clearing, "I'll set it when we are far enough away that should the wind pick up, it will not fan the flames onto us."

She gripped his shoulder again, and nodded her thanks.

There were only four of them left now, he realised, watching as Vai rode out. He barely even recalled her men falling. It was as if one moment they had been there, and the next, they had not. Life could be counted in heartbeats, but for now, it had stilled. There might be more of them hiding out in the trees, waiting to ambush them, but if they came, unless they could overwhelm them, they would fight their way free.

The taint within his blood danced, elation at carnage. This was who he was, what he was born for: an avatar of destruction, an avatar of death. No mere mortal could dare stand before him. Today had been a lesson, an exercise in flexing his abilities; a chance to test his prowess. He had passed, with flying colours. The dreamself was proud of him; even the cold logic approved. And this? This was but the first taste. More was promised.

In his mind's eye, the mountain of corpses grew. The skull atop the throne was still grinning. The slaughter had gone well.


	38. Captured, part 1

_Captured_

Before Vai had gone ahead, he pressed the leather binder into her hands. At the time, it had seemed foolish, but he did not wish to forget to give it to her later. She needed to see the letters. At first, she looked surprised; her eyes becoming set: now was not the time. All it had taken was a silent shake of his head, his gaze on hers; she had relented. There was no reason not to accept. Thrusting it into her hands, he turned and left, preparing to deal with the camp. It had seemed a weak reason back then; she could fall as easily as he. His insistence she had accepted as whim, despite his atrocious timing. Now he was glad he had.

The mailed hand struck him sharply; coming down out of nowhere. Reeling, he recoiled; the knowledge he could do nothing tore at him, made only more bitter as the taste of his blood touched his tongue as his lip split.

"I said," the owner of the voice leaned in, her face pressed closed to his, "get on yer knees." Her hand cracked down sharply again, forcing his head to one side. Seizing him with both hands, she held him fast as her knee rammed into him. "Let's try this again, shall we?"

Her smile was anything but pleasant, and he had seen more warmth in predators as they toyed with their prey. Her eyes were cold, off-green; there was a elegance about her, a refinement that belied her brutality. It was as if her once fine features were roughed and hardened, but somehow, the pride still remained, stronger than before. She reminded him of a wildcat; one that dwelt high up in the crags.

Her skin was fair, not bronzed like so many others in the wilds; her tawny hair rugged and short. Despite her leathers and furs, her mail ringlets were finest steel. At first glance, the trappings she and the others wore suggested brutish thugs, unsophisticated and barbaric, but upon closer inspection there was more than met the eye. Not for the first time, he began to wonder if he had made a mistake.

He had felt their eyes on him. Felt that he was being shadowed; stalked. It was subtle, so unlike the 'stealth' the bandits had employed. To compare the two would be comparing a yapping hound with a panther, or some other hunting cat. He had known. They did not know he had seen them; catching slight glimpses, aware they were tracking him. The choice was his own.

It was at that point he wheeled around, distancing himself from Vai; slipping off without her knowledge. Choosing to face them on his terms, not theirs. Such rashness had taken them by surprise; leaving no signs of a struggle, leaving no dead in his wake. This occurred after he rejoined her, after setting the tents ablaze; after pressing the binder into her hands. Both travelled in silence, too weary to speak; too lost in thought. His thoughts were grim as night had fallen, as they cleared the confines of the wood.

He could have asked Vai, used her sources of information. They might have uncovered who was behind this. He could have investigated the Iron Throne on his own. He could have warned Vai, slain the stalkers as he had the last group. He could have chosen another path.

Somehow, the 'mights' and 'maybes' didn't seem solid enough, that valuable time would be wasted. The only sure-fire way to infiltrate was to be brought before them; taken into their stronghold. Or allow his captors to believe that is where they would take him. They might not know any thing more than he, but they would know their contact: perhaps the one who had issued the bounty. If not the source, then the one they would collect from.

Vai would never have permitted it; he had known it since their exchange at the Friendly Arm. Leaving Gareth on watch, as they made camp, he had mulled it over. Considered, questioned, turned it around and around. They were still a day and a half's ride from Beregost; they were in no condition to press on through the night. The tracker was experienced, yes; but he was worn down from the battle.

As Vai slept, he left, evading the watchman and leaving the last member of her company slumbering nearby. He had hesitated; a note would suffice. The less she knew, the better. He would meet with her in Beregost. He spied the hunters, and would set an end to his bounty. Anything less, and she might never forgive him. Anything more, and – she would be furious regardless. He would track them, he had intended, track them to their source. Briefly, before they had bedded down, she had made mention it would take several days to restock, and send word for reinforcements. She would meet with mayor Keldath Ormlyr. Beregost could not be left undefended. She did not need him for that, he penned, he had to act now, before the hunters escaped; he was sorry, he had added, ending the missive with a regretful scrawl.

He entrusted his life to Fate once more, seeking to kiss the hands of Fortune.


	39. Captured, part 2

The collar drew tight, choking as the rope was tugged. There was not so much as a cruel smile; they had done this too many times before. It was no longer about the pleasure of the hunt, if it had ever been: simply about the reward.

There were four of them; humans. Women, all. The youngest was in her second decade; the oldest in her third. The two others seemed closer to their third than second, but might have been midway; it was hard to gauge. Each were hardened like the one who held him now; although each was as distinctive and unique as they came; 'uniform' did not apply here, and yet somehow, there was a theme. It was their armament: all were armed quite literally to the teeth; he had spied at least one finger-length knife bound by her hair.

Axes in the style of hatchets; machetes, numerous knives and blades; short swords, nets, manacles, collars, hooks and grapples – all these and more they carried. Barbed spears, harpoons… If not for the blowpipes and shortbows they held, he might have mistaken them for gladiators. If not those, then slavers. Still the style of their blades seemed more suited to the fighting pits than the wilderness – and that was not something he had faced before.

Already, his eye was blackened and bruises were beginning to form under his robe. His knees were sore; thankfully it was the forest floor and not the stone roads he had been forced upon, or they would have been torn and raw. A slap left his ears ringing, catching it as she struck his cheek. Lighter than before, it was a reprimand of mockery; the sharp sting left his eyes watering.

She laughed. There was no mirth in her; her grey eyes more ominous than the clouds above. Seizing his ear between thumb and forefinger, she twisted sharply; impassive as he lay him gasping. Despite her rough handling, her gaze was watchful; careful not to damage him. "So it's true elfin ears are more sensitive." Her smile was closer to a snarl, bearing her teeth, "Anger me, an' it'll be a belt singin' around them."

Her accent was hard to place, he decided, forcing the pain from his mind as he nodded hurriedly. It appeased her; at least enough to yank him to his feet. She had already warned him about speaking out of turn, a sharp knife placed under his chin as her tongue flicked along its flat. He would rather keep his tongue, so he preferred not to speak. This, she had laughed at, but left it well alone. Eyes welling up, he winced as she gripped him by the chin until he was on tiptoes and drew the manacles tight. Satisfied he could not escape, she pulled a hood over his head and the trek began.

…It had been so simple, he decided, aware of his rhythmic footsteps and the occasional tug of the leash. With nothing but darkness to envelope his senses, and the occasional muted murmur of his captors, he had plenty of time with which to think. The slapping and knocking around had not been so bad; really, the threats were the least of it. It was to be expected, really: instil fear into a prisoner, to ensure he did not attempt to escape. Textbook intimidation tactics. The cold logic said nothing; the dreamself was not even present. He could feel the silent disapproval in the back of his mind though; he had the power to slay each one of them, cutting them down one by one, with steel and magick. Why he had not used his magick to dominate their feeble minds as he had done with Natasha was beyond reason, but, if he wished to forestall their deaths, so be it. As long as he was not so foolish to think they would not hesitate to end him at a heartbeat's notice: or that death was not awaiting for him at the end. Only their greed had spared him, not his pretty words. If it came to it, he should be ready to end _them_ faster than a heartbeat's notice. As long as he was aware…

To that, he had little answer; he could have attempted to control their minds, but how many could he control? To gaes them would have involved willingness… he could still feel the slight pinprick scar from Stephen's binding. He was not sure he wished to test it any time soon. He could feel the cold logic's displeasure; he was wasting the gifts given to him. He would have to learn the hard way.

He closed his eyes. It was pointless, in the darkness, but he desired the familiar comfort of his eyelids anyway. It _had_ been so simple. He had approached, appearing in their midst, and as their startled expressions changed to recognition, their blades had come out to kill him.

 _"Wait,"_ he had called, holding up his hands, his sword still at his side, _"I wish to talk."_ Staring down two arrows, he had stood firm as their leader had signalled them to hold. She had studied him, idly toying with the twin short swords in her hands; the other had looked surprised. That one held a net and barbed harpoon; he had kept a watchful eye on that. _"I…"_ Deliberately, he had taken a deep breath, _"am tired of being hunted. I wish… to surrender."_

The leader's eyes had narrowed in suspicion, _"If it is death ye seek, we'll grant it to ye swiftly."_ She has said, readying her hand. Her archers would have released had he not cried out.

 _"I am worth more to you alive! The bounty – the notice – you will be paid more if I am still breathing!"_

 _"Yer troublesome alive. The notice specified yer death, elf."_

 _"You can take my life at any time; bring me in alive: prove that you can capture rather than kill, and let the ones who ordered my execution have the pleasure of taking my life. How much more do you think they would pay to end me personally, if they are willing to go to such lengths to see me dead? Surely that reeks of hatred; I would be an example to all others who would dare to defy them – and you, your fame would grow further."_ He appealed to her vanity, outwardly desperate but inwardly calm; the one with the net hadn't moved, but she was tense: they all were. A roll to the right, dodging the arrows and bringing his sorcery into play the instant they–

 _"Ye spin a compulsive argument; yet the question remains: why? Why do ye wish this?"_

 _"I told you; I am tired of being hunted. I wish to gaze into the eyes of those who would end me; to see their face."_ Lowering his gaze, he dared to risk truth, and locked his eyes anew on her. _"I don't know who has ordered my death, or why I am hunted. I wish to know. The hunters will not stop coming; most work alone and would not care about my reasons: only my death. There are four of you and only one of me. As long as you get paid, why do you care? Either way, you will have to transport me – either my stinking head, or alive and willing."_

It had stopped her in her tracks; a thoughtful frown settling over her. Eventually, she had agreed, ordering him to disarm and under threat of bowfire, he had.

The leash constricted and he felt himself fall as the ground rushed up to hit him. Feeling dazed, a swift kick brought him around; daylight blinding him as the hood was yanked off. Blinking, he looked around; a camp was being set up. Bewildered, he stared at the campfire; it was banked, like so many others he himself had made. Nearby, one of the women was skinning two rabbits; another plucked a pheasant. It seemed they were proficient hunters of game as well. Tents had not been set up; he had not seen them carry any and no bedroll had been given to him. He had only his cloak and the clothes he walked in. There would be questions asked, he knew, when they searched his satchel; the elf's head in particular would raise eyebrows, of that he had no doubt.

The boot raised again and he cringed; smirking the leader stopped short, "Yer learnin'. Get up."

He obeyed, shakily rising to his feet.

"Knees, boy. Get to yer knees."

He didn't need to be told twice.

"That's better." There was a slight smirk, but it never touched her eyes, "We're restin' now; ye wish to eat, ye make nay fuss." She nodded in approval, "Keep it up and mayhaps we'll nay be beatin' ye quite so much."

As the leash was staked to the ground, he found himself further from the fire than he was used to. Soon the mouth-watering aroma of stew filled his nostrils, and to his surprise – and relief –, a shallow wooden bowl was thrust under his nose.

"Savour it," the blonde haired woman said; – not the leader –, her words as expressionless as they came; "it'll all you'll get."

Nodding, he murmured his thanks – much to her bemused surprise. She rewarded him with a laugh, and shook her head at the 'madness of elves'; something she muttered as she walked away. Laughter echoed from around the fire as she relayed his words. He shrugged; it hadn't cost him anything.

From the fire, the younger girl, turned and looked oddly at him. It lasted only a moment, but their eyes had locked; he had caught something different within it. A plan began to form. Soon, she was supping happily with her comrades, but it was something at least.

That night, he dreamt.


	40. Captured, part 3

Arcane flames billowed, embracing her, consuming her, dancing within her robe; threads licking out, the blue silk untouched by their trail. Laughter echoed as Davaeron towered over her; his face a twisted mask of hate, sadistic rage tainting his once handsome features. His hands shone, filled with magical power as he employed his dark arts; wrapping around her, they soared, towering as high as her head: for an instant, he could make her out through the flame, and then, there was nothing, not even an outline. Only the blackened, charred form where once life had been. The empty eyesockets stared dully through him, and then… she was gone.

Whirling, Davaeron gestured, already forming the arcane motions that accompanied his vile magicks, and still laughing, pointed. Merciless triumph met satisfaction, as he gloated, "It is the end for you."

"Ye forgot about me, laddie–" Yeslick's voice interrupted from the shadows, the arcane syllables dying as the dwarf's axe dully cleft the archmage's skull.

Discontent at being denied its due, even as the dying archmage rasped, black threads of raw force coiled out from the dream-Aurifyr. The same power he had used to leech the elf back in Cloakwood, only magnified. Threads, tinged with crimson; old, dried blood flaring as it pulsed to life, as it sapped the lifeforce of Yeslick, Davaeron, even the wisp of smoke where Natasha once lay. It filled him, and with each death, he felt more alive. Their deaths sang within him, awareness spreading with each heartbeat. Within him, he ruled the slain. His dominion, a voice whispered deep within, even as the dream faded, the afterimage of his butchery lingering.

He awoke with the silhouettes of his slain at his back, his blade dancing in his hand, dread terror and dark sorcery in the other… facing the faceless masses of those who did not yet know they were marked; his future victims. Friends and foes numbered amongst them.

The night did not allow him any further rest, and try though he might, the image of Vai challenging him in full battledress, and lying broken beneath him, only to rise as a shadow, a wraith at his side, would not leave him. Such was the fate of any who drew too close to him, the voice uttered in his darkest confines. No longer did he ruthlessly suppress it, no longer heeding its dire promises; troubled thoughts clouding him instead. He had to end this. One way, or another, he would.

Spearheading his infiltration was his only course; his chosen course. He saw no other way. If the slain were his, he would choose them from the ranks of those who preyed on the innocent. But, the voice murmured, such choice was not always his. He could not always choose who came against him. Rebuking it with a thought, he knew in his heart, it was right. At least… he would do what he could to minimise the damage. It would have to be enough.

 _'Necessity breeds evil'_ the voice echoed, fading into laughter.


	41. Captured, part 4

The next day was one of rain and gloom. The skies had finally opened, the clouds shedding their misery in a constant haze of falling fog. Too wet to be mist, too fine to be dew; the vapour enveloped them, a constant cowl that the wind did nothing to remove. More than once he stumbled, and more than once, the leash pulled him up short. Every so often, gloved hands would grip him roughly and half guide, half drag him along. Underfoot, he could feel the forest begin to thin, only to grow thick again. The gush of a stream caught his attention, but hooded as he was, he could see little. With the rain, the ground began slippery, and to his surprise, his captors did not begrudge him for it.

He travelled in the centre of the column, he realised from the sound of their footsteps; likely, there was one up ahead scouting, and at least one behind, if not two. Sometimes it changed; sometimes there were two in front and one behind, other times only one. He was watched at all times though; they were never very far ahead. Each footstep was a breath, and soon breaths turned to moments, and then hours, losing himself in the steady pace. Thoughts swirled around him, and they rarely stopped; they were starving him of food and water, he knew: to keep him 'docile'. They fed him just enough to get by on, watered him just enough to keep going…

The youngest, the one who had caught his eye had watered him, holding the waterskin and allowing him to sip. She had not removed the hood; they never did, but she had lifted it just enough. Taking him by the chin, she had held him firm, then guided him; he could feel her strong, slender fingers through her leather gloves. Her touch had not been unkind; he had thanked her, barely a murmur but he knew she had heard it. She had froze; lingered a split-second longer; half a heartbeat, and then she was gone. The slightest of smiles touched his lips; under the hood, none could see it. The next time she had watered him, her touch had been softer, only just, but it was there. She had allowed him a slightly longer drink.

When they paused again, it had been another who thrust the waterskin under the hood; he recognised her as being rougher than the leader: the one with the barbed spear? She had been the brunet; her eyes as dark as her hair. Two more stops each threes hours apart and she had seen to him. But the next stop, it was the youngest.

That evening, they set up camp in the dark. No one had wanted to bed down soaked and every stitch was sodden. An hour earlier, the rain had let up, cooling to a damp breeze as short gusts blew the leaves from underfoot. Still within the forest, this time it was squirrel on the menu.

A few minutes after the fire had finally caught, the rain began to fall again, this time heavier than before. After much cursing, the idea of dinner was abandoned; the meat would be saved for another day. Hearing this, he winced, hoping it would not go bad. No one bothered to water him and he was more or less left to his own devices, within the confines of the leash. Gathering rainwater with hands chained behind his back was not the easiest of tasks, but somehow he managed to sate his thirst – giving up on his hands and simply standing with his mouth open under the rain. The thought of the water being bad or something worse falling in his mouth was one he pushed to the back of his mind. He was too tired, too wet, and too cold to care.

This time, he sheltered under the cover of a tree, the broad bough sheltering him from the worst of the downpour. Sleep did not come easily, and by the time he had entered his revive, the light of dawn was approaching. It was some small satisfaction to know that his captors slept just as well as he, but the knowledge they would likely take it out on him soon soured such joy, small as it was.

The next day was sunnier. While the threat of clouds still hung in the sky, the scent of the forest was fresh rather than damp, and within hours of the dawn, the ground had begun to dry out. Still chilly, the fact they were moving did little to help. His clothes remained wet, and more then once, he stifled a sneeze. From the way his captors grunted, he could tell they were not pleased either.

Eventually, around midday, they stopped. In a clearing, he was ordered to strip; by now his cloak had partially dried out and after his robe, undertunic, belt, boots and britches were hung over a tree, that, and his loincloth, was all he was left in. He had not expected them to leave him such modesty, but no one seemed to notice or care about his state, beyond leaving his clothes to air. Despite being the most uncomfortable of his garb, the manacles and collar remained, but he had not thought for an instant they would be removed.

Left standing to sun, from the corner of his eye, he noted with veiled wryness, that two of his captors were dressed as he. He did not see much, thanks to his vision being blocked by the savage blonde, and within two breaths of his attire being taken from him, he was roughly turned around and his cloak taken from him.

The sun felt wonderfully warm upon his skin; after hours of chill and misery, truly, it was a gift from the gods. Soon the scent of squirrel roasting caught his attention, and within the hour, he could hear them dining. Several more long moments passed, leaving his mouth watering and pangs of hunger gnawing at him, the aroma of wild fowl was added to the squirrel. Unwilling to turn around of his own accord, he flinched as he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He had heard her approach, but expected to be forced to his knees.

"Here," the youngest quietly held out a bowl, her large brown eyes studying him cautiously, "your clothes will be dry soon." A blanket draped around her, over her shoulder he could see her companions squatting before the fire, clutching blankets of their own. Looking up at him, she watched for his reaction; he smiled, his eyes as warm as he could make them.

"My thanks," he breathed, noting the ever-so-slight hint of colour touch her; she had dimples, he realised, inclining his head just enough. Somehow, he doubted she had ever been thanked so gratefully – or by what appeared to be gratitude. The dreamself laughed darkly; he was using her, just as he had used Natasha, just as he had used Stephen. Just as he used Vai. Just as he had used Ris. Chuckling to itself, it faded, leaving a haunted expression in the elf's eyes.

She reached out, then stopped herself; concern flashed, briefly, and then it was gone; reaching forwards, she adjusted his collar, re-securing it in place. "Finish this, and then you may drink," she told him, suddenly aware that her companions' eyes were on her. Had his look betrayed this, or had she felt it? She must have caught the reflection in his eyes. Wheeling, she returned to them without a further word. Their questioning expressions greeted her, but their looks remained on him. More than once, they sought out his eyes, a not-so-veiled warning in their own, and did so each in turn. Only the youngest did not; but it was the savage blond that watered him after.

They remained in the clearing for the remainder of the afternoon; to his elfin ears, the trickle of a stream was nearby, and in pairs, the women disappeared, always ensuring two were at camp. The sound of splashing reached him, and when they returned, their hair was damp. The sun had continued to shine, and were it not for the fact he was chained and bound, he might have forgotten he was their captive.

Summarily ignored, for once, he appreciated being 'invisible'. The bounty hunters did not jape or laugh, but were efficient; working as a close-knit team. Rarely did their leader issue orders, but then, rarely did they speak. When they did, only the murmur of muted mutters reached him, and he could not decipher what was said.

As dusk fell, they broke camp and marched until night fell. So far, no one had commented on the contents of his satchel, and as the bag that served as his hood covered his head, he was glad to be underway; with walking came silence, and with silence, there were no questions asked.


	42. Captured, part 5

Three more days passed, each a trial, but somehow, becoming easier, despite the lack of food. It was an odd thing, he pondered, knowing that his body was weakening, and yet somehow managing to push on, adjusting to the pace, adapting… and despite all signs to the contrary, he was growing stronger for it. Somehow, the more he was pushed, the closer he came to his limits, the more he strived to live; as if the fat was being cut from the lean, the wheat separated from the chaff: the gruelling pace was uplifting, rather than crushing. His spirit soared, rejoicing at the challenge, even as his body protested. It was all very strange… but somehow, natural. He must have been out of his mind to enjoy it; not the torment, but the challenge, knowing he wasn't buckling. Had he hit his head during the episode with the wyvern?

The games with his captors had continued; he had learnt one of their names. They rarely addressed one another, and when they did, it was with a grunt. Somehow, he doubted the name he heard was anything more than an alias. The youngest – 'Tawny Eyes'; he had decided upon mentally naming each of them – flashed him quick looks every so often when they camped. Each time, he offered a small smile; it had taken her two days to venture a hesitant half-smile of her own. At least she had returned it.

'Wildcat' – the name he had decided upon for the leader – did not seem to notice, or if she did, said nothing of it. He rarely interacted with her; mostly keeping out of her way and being careful not to draw attention to himself. 'Savage Blonde' was the one who dealt with him the most; she seemed to be his keeper. 'Barbed Spear', the brunet, seemed to be the huntress; she seemed to stay the least at camp, and out of all of them, she seemed to care the least he was there. Not once had he heard her speak, but then, not once had he seen her acknowledge his presence. It was as if he was less than nothing – which suited him just fine.

A few more days and they would be out of the forest, he had heard one of them say across dinner the night before. It seemed they were keeping a low profile, avoiding the main trails and the back roads; hiking across country took far longer, but they did not seem to wish to leave any trace of their passing. It appeared, from the little he had caught, that there were other players involved – and not all their plans involved him. Part of him was pleased by that; part of him felt irritated. Absurd, he knew, but somehow, he felt as if he should have been their first priority; the arrogance of it made him cringe. Yet the dreamself agreed, for once, it's mockery ceasing at this slight. It emphasised the part that was his pride; voicing its outrage: how dare such _mortals_ behave so? It was an affront! And that, in itself, was enough to shy back from such feelings. Scorn had followed, and much to his relief, the dreamself went back to shunning him.

The most significant news had been an exchange he had caught that morning; hushed whispers from 'Barbed Spear' to 'Wildcat' revealed that they were being followed. It appeared that the group had come into contact with another days before they had found him, and a short skirmish had ensued. It was both disturbing and gratifying to hear that the hunters were still in conflict with one another, but troubling that there were now groups, as opposed to solely individuals. Of course, he had not overheard much, and had he been human, he doubted very much he would have heard anything at all, but… such developments were of interest nonetheless.

After that, their pace had picked up and the tri-hourly stops for water became hourly – and the pauses to relieve himself became five rather than three; not that he was counting. Not that he needed the same as a human, yet it was best to play along. Despite his observations, the change in his captors routine offered little insight on how to execute an escape plan should it come to that. His gaze sought out 'Tawny Eyes'' own, and she ventured a half smile. Briefly, he considered enlisting her aid then dismissed it. His original plan still stood.


	43. Captured, part 6

As night fell, 'Savage Blonde' delivered a beating worthy of her namesake while 'Barbed Spear' looked on. Lifting his chin and almost smiling, 'Savage Blonde' mimicked her leader's tone, and blackened his eye, "Ye'll nay be looking at the lass."

Backhanding him, she split his lip, and planted her fist in his stomach a few times, holding him up by the hair as he doubled over. With a mocking final pat to his cheek, the pair departed, 'Barbed Spear' hesitating only a second after 'Savage Blonde' had left to give him a warning look, promising there would be more and worse if he stepped out of line again. Then, without a backwards glance, she left. She had never raised a finger against him; of the two, she was the more dangerous, he decided, forcing a smile at their backs despite his blood-soaked teeth.

From the side, near the campfire, he noticed 'Tawny Eyes'' quick glance, before she lowered her eyes and tended the stew.

Later, when no one was watching, she brought him water, and winced, gingerly examining his now-swollen shut eye. Smiling at her, he found himself shaking – not as involuntary as it appeared, the cold logic whispered – and she pulled back as he leaned forward. Staring up at her, his eyes displayed the hurt his heart did not feel, he waited. More hesitantly than before, she placed a timid hand on his cheek, watching him squeeze his eye closed in pained relief.

Deliberately, feigning vulnerability, he kissed her palm. Troubled, she left him, even as his gaze followed her – caught, met and held, her backwards glance both times. Every so often, after that, she shot him a look; concern and a slight smile in equal measure. In his mind, he never forgot what she was.

Later still, while her sisters slept, she crept over and knelt beside him, lifting a waterskin to his parched lips. Greedily, he drank, pressing closer to fill his mouth, too thirty to savour each gulp. Pulling it from him slightly, her unspoken message was clear: _slow down_. Rather than ignore it as he was wont, he obeyed. Finally, after he had drained the skin of every last drop, she removed it. Grateful she had allowed him his fill, he swallowed deep breaths, even as she turned to go.

"Wait," he whispered quickly, "Please," his word trembled as much as he could make it, pouring all his sincerity into this desperate gambit.

Twisting back, she hesitating, staring at him, the tawny-eyes for which he had named her shy, uncertain.

Deliberately, his tone hushed, studying her all the while, "You didn't have to," Knowing she could barely make out what he was saying, he shifted slightly, and cautiously, she inched closer. "I'm grateful…" Another inch, another half; he leaned forward as if to confide – and she accommodated. "This is all I have to thank you," Confusion clouded her features momentarily, her eyes widening as he pressed his lips to hers.

Flinching back in horror and outrage, her hand lifted to strike him; then halted. From her widening stare, his earnest, childlike dependant trust reflected back at him, mingling with her own fading shock. The heartbeats passed, the seconds between seeming to last a lifetime. At last, his serenity won her over, and gently, she took his cheek with the same hand she almost struck him with not two minutes before.

Closer she crept, closing the distance until she could feel his warmth and he hers, and then slowly, haltingly, her lips reached for his. His own pursed and met hers before he drew back a hair. As softly as he could, he returned it, aiming just slightly off. Half on her mouth, half on its side, he kept his closed, his caress as light as he could make it.

After touching several times, she began to kiss him, timidly at first, then more firmly, as she overcame her uncertainty. He watched as her eyes widened, surprised by his tenderness, then emboldened, she moved to kiss him deeply and he twisted away. Before the rejection, shame and fury hit her, before she could withdraw her hand, he played his hand.

"Don't," he pleaded, his words choking, "Your sisters, they'll beat you – please…" More fearful for her, than for himself, his calculated risk went for the proverbial jugular as she froze, "This – this isn't worth it; I couldn't bear it if they hurt you. I'm not worth it."

Her hand remained where it was; he could feel her stiffen, tensing to strike him. Lifting his eyes to her, he let her see how haunted they were, holding hers fully, terribly. He made no attempt at any magicks; summoning up feelings from his past, displayed genuinely, his only treachery within.

Staring, she considered him, her own eyes never leaving his. Finally, she leaned forward, frowning as he flinched, then settled as she kissed his brow. At first she faltered as he lowered his head, then decisively pulled him her breast, enfolding and stroking the back of his head. Not allowing himself to sob, instead he forced himself to tremble, a little at first, until racks tore through his body. Her hold tightened as she planted a kiss on his hair, silently soothing him.

"You mustn't," Pressing against her for all he was worth, he whispered, "Leave be-before they wake and see you!"

Squeezing his shoulder as she shushed him, she rocked him for a while. Eventually, she lifted his chin and stared into his eyes. Without false modesty, she asked, "Have ye ever known someone befer?"

Carefully weighing her, wary for any hint deceit, he returned evenly, "Have you?"

"Never a man…" Swallowing, she lowered her eyes, "Is there someone ye love?"

"No…" croaking hoarsely, the word chafed in his throat. _Did_ he love _her_? He didn't know. Whatever he felt, it wasn't what he had heard described. The question caught him off-guard. "No," he repeated, staring at the ground between her knees, "Once… I thought maybe there was, but…"

She looked at him, "She was close to ye?"

He shook his head.

Slightly sadly, she reached out and brushed his cheek; then she smiled. "Ye should."

"No – if we're caught, your sisters… they'll–"

"Shh," Placing a finger over his lips, her eyes drew him to her, "Thar's nay awake but ye an' me. We've some time yet befer they wake." Softly, she added, "We should make the best of it while we can."

Frozen, his blood stilled, then squeezing his eyes shut, he kissed her finger. So this was what selling himself meant: his pride, his honour, his virtue – all to infiltrate, seducing his captor – knowing well she could be playing him as he tried to play her.

Ah, but the cold logic whispered in the depths of his mind, _'but you are already damned; you've already sold yourself. You bound one of your kindred's spirit, summoned it from beyond the veil; leeched another's lifeforce. This pales before such defilement.'_ He could not argue with the voice, but everything within him felt unclean; somehow, this was too easy –

 _'So what if it is?'_ the voice persisted, _'were you not comely, would she have fallen for your charm so easily, the spell you wove without magick? The song you sing is deception; she would not be the first to fall under your sway. Manipulation and lies come as easily to you as breathing, yet you deceive yourself. You are what you are._

 _'Take her and use her, as you would any other. Take her and use her, as she intends to use you. You don't really believe she's speaking truth, do you? Are you so naïve? Embrace her, feed off her; as she writhes, renew your vigour; replenish yourself with her lifeforce.'_

The cold logic paused, turning sly, _'you need not gorge yourself, it mocked, just a little will do; sup on her, and drink deeply: she has more than enough to spare. Ration yourself, and soon, her lifeforce will return; even now, you hear it, throbbing bright, a burning star before you. Open your true eyes; see what she is: food! Sup just a little, and she will refill, like a tree grows new leaves. Test the truth of this; see how mortals rejuvenate. See how their lifeforce regenerates.'_

Feeling wretched, he let the 'counsel' drift, the last words lingering, as if icy fingers dragged lightly over his skull. The 'exchange' – if it could be called that – lasted mere heartbeats. That he had begun to address the cold logic and dreamself directly no longer disturbed him. Madness was a release, but he could not allow himself such an easy time of it. No, he was sane – as certain of it as he could be, at least. If this was what it meant to crack… then madness was overrated.

Unaware of his struggle raging within, she watched him and when his lips pressed to her finger, she smiled, and reached under her skirt. Shyly, she leaned back a little, her small, bashful half-smiles meant to entice, offering herself to him.

Chained to the tree, the knowledge that he was helpless unless he used magick truly began to sink in. Unclasping her leggings, she watched him closely, shuffling as she drew the ties loose. Her thighs together, she wiggled and slipped them down. Aware his eyes were on her, she wavered, then reached for his belt. Fumbling it open, she moved to the hem of his robe, and slipped inside and up. Reaching the leggings he wore under it, she felt her way to the buckle-less belt and pulled it free. Then setting to work determinedly, she struggled with his ties.

It was all he could do not to wince; deftly, she slid her thumbs under his leggings and tugged awkwardly. Pressing closer, she began to position herself for him, her lower half eagle-spread, her hands gripping his thighs. Despite her apparent discomfort, she was taking charge and there was little he could do to stop her.

"Wait," he whispered, forcing himself to sound shy and also hurriedly anticipant at the same time, "May I…" Haltingly, he let his gaze roam over her chest and then rest on it, "kiss you first?"

She frowned at his hesitation, then just as haltingly, lifted her tunic. More than a little guardedly, she thrust her chest out while waiting for his reaction. Scars crisscrossed it here and there; one where an arrow had tore out a chunk of her side. Another from a knife across her lower belly. Her breasts were full and ripe, larger and rounded than he had expected; he might well have described it as an 'ample bosom' – but not wholly grown. Despite her scars, she was still young; he wondered how young. A few years into her second decade? Perhaps not even into her twentieth year; he didn't know. In any event, she seemed… fuller… than Vai.

"You… like them?" If her hesitation was faked, she was more than good at it. As he made a show of staring, gaping even, she smiled and still kneeling, rose as far as she could. Her face was on a level with his, until he relaxed, slouching and allowed his cheek to settle on her upper arc of her curves. Wrapping his face in her arms, she stroked his hair, both pleased and displeased by his reluctance, his submissiveness. Closing his eyes, he slowed his breathing and listened to her heartbeat, centring himself.

Several moments passed. Then she lifted his face and kissed him, her shyness all but spent.


	44. Captured, part 7

Something within him stirred; visions, memories. Faces. A hunger gnawing at him, not born of lust, but of power. It coaxed him to drink of her, to sup upon her life-force. Her soft, warm lips pressed closer, her teeth nibbling – the well within him opened. Not of mortal flesh or desire, but of raw hunger. The taint, its sickly, clinging ooze, the dark ichor saturated to him. Sickened, he pushed, and in the waking world, she stared. Tawny eyes filled with wounded pride, fury flared.

"Shh," he hissed, "there–"

She had already snatched up her top, but froze. Half twisting, she looked over her shoulder, and with his thigh's urging, scurried back. Whether it had been a small rodent, or a larger beast, it had been enough to startle the slumber of 'Savage Blonde' and 'Barbed Spear'. As 'Tawny Eyes' scuttled back, he knew he had lost her. The shame in her eyes was all too real. Part of him breathed in relief, yet a smaller, darker part hissed in fury at him. The regret of not knowing her, of not sipping from her life essence – the malevolence within the taint growled.

Disgrace at what he had almost done drowned it out; his thoughts focused on Ris, on Vai. He might have been using this huntress, but it did not make it right. His eyes closed.

'Tawny Eyes'' warmth lingered in his mind for the rest of the night.

The next morning she brought him water, displaying no sign of the previous night's events. Then, abandoning her shyness as she had hours earlier, she reached under his robe, past the still loosened ties and gripped him firmly. With a smile and a lusty kiss, she broke away, hips swaying as she strode.

While 'Barbed Spear' watched her leave, 'Savage Blonde' smirked at her. With deliberate indifference, 'Barbed Spear' wandered over to the chained elf, and commented, "You're not the first, you know. She does this with everyone we catch. A game she plays."

The callousness remark was meant to crush him, but instead, it steeled him. Inwardly, he raged, humiliation and resentment clashing, but beneath it, a cold clarity. To think he had allowed himself to like her, almost believed… once again, the cold logic was right.

Pausing, she studied him, "We take it in turns, pretending not to watch, but she delights in it most."

Aurifyr remained deadpan.

"Did you think we weren't aware?"

Forcing a smile, he managed, "We never got that far. Jape's on you."

Her eyes grew icy, flashing hate and promising retribution. Hefting the shaft of spear to strike, she turned and strode away.

His sigh of relief was audible, and then it became a sharp intake of breath as she twisted, and slammed the butt into his temple. Not hard enough to cave in his skull, the light faded even before the blur of the spear had.

 _Dreams._ Darkness. Pain seared through him, the inner throb of his life-beat pounding with his blood. He was alone. Through a haze of shadow, the dreamself stood before him. Eyes of gold glowed. A dark mirror. His own features, mutating. Sheathed in blackened armour, a grinning skull capped his head, a helm with steel bars. In his hand rested a pommel, a great sword spanning the length of his body, sans neck and head. Drowned in blood, tip down, it pierced a mound of skulls. His victims. The dreamself stepped forth, fusing with him.

His silent scream tore the endless black.

The buzz of arrows brought him back. Clanking past him through fog, a dismounted figure strode, surcoat billowing, its emblem blazing orange. Fire-haired, pale-eyed, unstoppable. Grimfaced, sword in hand, she marched. Vai. 'Tawny Eye' faced her, hate played across her features. Horses thundered by; a Flaming Fist fell, pierced by 'Barbed Spear', even as 'Savage Blonde' fell, riddled with arrows. A second horse, a mace crush and a spear thrust spelt death to 'Barbed Spear'.

In acute detail, yet still dazed, Aurifyr watched the duel play out. The tawny eyed girl was no match for the plate mailed officer, and circling, she back peddled, wheeled and fled, snatching up her belt knife and holding it to the elf's throat.

He felt nothing; not remorse, not fear, not even hate.

"I'll kill 'im!" the girl shrieked. Vai's advance didn't slow. The knife's edge pressed, and blood trickled; somewhere, in the din of his thoughts, the rush of pain and noise, he was aware of the sensation. Of the heat, the dribble, and his blood screamed. Bound, he could do nothing. Nothing except harness his magicks.

"Step away from him."

Vai's words were ice and her gaze granite. Her steel remained raised.

Wild eyed, the girl hissed, "Back!" The blade bit deeper.

"Let her go," the elf's voice cut across the still, even as the two women faced each other. Shock coloured the huntress, but Vai remained deadpan. "Please."

There were no threats from the officer, only the promise of death.

"Go," he urged his captor; she hesitated. "While you can–"

She slumped, an arrow lodged in her exposed back. The tree had shielded only so much. As her arm went limp, Vai strode across the few paces separating them and swung. The girl barely had time to raise her arm before the blade's flat cracked across her temple. She crumpled into his lap. Accusingly, he looked up at Vai, then it faded as he took her in. Battered, and beaten, feebly, he forced lightness, "Rescuing me is becoming a bad habit."

Cold eyes regarded him, silently noting his loosened legging's ties.

"I did what I had to do."

She said nothing, but turned around, "Gareth, report."

"One down," the hardened tracker called, stepping from out of the fog and lowering his bow. He didn't look at the elf, "the spear punched through his mail, but he'll live."

"Good." She regarded the clearing, "Salvage what you can." Almost as an afterthought, she added, "and do something about that."

She strode away.

"There were four," the elf called after her, unable to even writhe under the huntress' slumped weight.

"All accounted for," Gareth murmured, arching an eyebrow as he took in the dishevelled robe and belt. Then he added quietly, "She's been worried about you," his features hardened, "you don't deserve her."

With a rough yank, he cut the bindings, and produced the key for the manacles and collar. Without pity, he left the elf to gingerly touch his neck and wrists, chaffed raw by his restraints.

"Your horse is over there." The broad-shouldered tracker dumped Aurifyr's satchel into his lap. "An' get dressed."

The man rose, his plain face grim. The days of growth he wore only added to it. Then he marched over to join his comrades in arms.

Silently, the elf pushed uselessly, his strength all but gone. The tawny eyed girl wasn't gone, not entirely; dead, yet he could still feel her essence dissipating. The cold logic urged him to drink, to renew himself. She was already dead, but her warmth still held some strength; he could–

"Aurifyr." Vai's words silenced the cold logic, "Come." Then, studying him, barked, "You, help him. We move out."

He let the huntress pass in peace.


	45. Captured, part 8

They journeyed in silence. Through the forest glades and fog, they rode, their horses walking as slowly as if they travelled on foot. Exhausted and worn, Aurifyr slumped in his saddle, neither caring for their destination, nor marking the passage of time. Vai rode a step in front of him, her watchful eye on the road ahead and the elf she had gone to such lengths to retrieve. With her wounded subordinate riding alongside her remaining man, and Gareth scouting in front, she led, Aurifyr's bridle in one hand, a barbed spear in the other.

As dusk fell, they set up camp in a clearing, the unwounded soldier tending to his companion before approaching Aurifyr. Waving him away, the elf pleaded only bruises, even as the cold logic hissed at him to drain the man of his life force, to restore himself. He ignored the voice, and quickly succumbed to slumber. Weakly setting out his bedroll, he collapsed into it without bothering to eat. He felt Vai's eyes upon him, her increasing concern clashing with her cool ire.

His sleep was far from dreamless, but when dawn woke him, he did not remember. As the camp roused, he was jolted from his sleep as the soldier shook him awake.

The day's riding began again, just as before. Fortunately, there had been no sign of the wyvern – yet.

The routine of travelling with Vai was one he quickly fell back into. Rain flittered, showering the party from patchy cloud, then light broke through the trees. Shining down on them, the damp left them quickly, but the weather remained fickle. By nightfall, they had been soaked no less than five times. The next day was the same, as was the day after that. On the fourth day, they broke the forest and chill winds tore at them.

Finally, they met with the main road, their destination the city of Baldur's Gate. Within its walls stood the headquarters of the Iron Throne.

Separated from the forests of Cloakwood, so named because the trees grew so thick it was said sunlight rarely shone, Baldur's Gate was framed against a vast and mighty river on its southern side, and the sea against its west. Crossing it involved passage over a long, fortified bridge, housed at both ends by portcullises, gates, and guards. Bridge sections could be raised from either shore. If that was not enough, near the centre of the walled city towered a walled keep, and a second set of walls surrounded the inner city.

Midday and cloud greeted them as they approached the bridge house; no one paid any heed to the weather, though the two soldiers behind them feasted on travel rations. Their commander did not. As the party drew nearer to the towering gate, Aurifyr leaned over, "there's a bounty on my head; if I'm seen with you–"

"I'm not letting you out of my sight." Vai retorted curtly, then jerked her head towards Gareth, "Ride ahead and tell them to let us through. I'm in no mood to deal with tolls today."

Tugging the hood of his cloak further down, the elf ignored Vai's cold stare and allowed her to lead his steed as the three Flaming Fist riders formed up in a column, two abreast.

The gate-guards let them through with smart salutes; Vai offered them only sharp nods. Gareth rejoined them at the bridge, the tracker wordlessly taking the elf's exposed flank. It really did seem Vai was taking no chances.

The queues of people lining the bridge made way, though they were far shorter than Aurifyr would have expected – had it not been for the recent months of banditry on the road. One glance at Vai's face confirmed his doubt, but caution told him not to voice it.

They rode on.


	46. Captured, part 9

As they passed the second gatehouse, they were met with more queues of those entering and leaving the city gates. The bustling crowds seemed unaffected this side of the river, but none of the Fist breathed easily. If anything, their guard was heightened, and they kept a watchful eye on the crowd and houses alike. The city gate opened up into a courtyard where colours of all kinds milled around. Commoners and nobles alike passed through in a sea of life. Street stalls and vendors lined every inch of the rim, and thatched two, even three, story buildings backed them. Signs advertising merchandise waved in the wind, accompanied by the cries of hawkers. The noise was constant and each of the Fist secured their bags and purses.

While they saw the noise and life of the city, Aurifyr saw something else: across his vision, the dreamself overlaid a steady crimson haze. Each of the people shone with a tiny spark, a few brighter than others, a glow of white filled gold, a shimmering web. Each was so slight, so easily extinguished, that if he were to but reach out, he might crush it in his hand. Dust motes, all of them. Even to his side, the outline of Vai held little more than a note. Glancing down, if only to block the view, he saw himself. Vivid, brilliant, a veritable sun amongst tiny drabs, a sun against a sea of stars.

 _'Look,'_ the dreamself whispered, _'look and see them for what they are. See yourself for what_ you _are.'_

The filthy film of dark ichor still hung across him; a skin, a sheen. The taint. He shook the dreamself away, but the sight did not fade until they veered away from the courtyard. Watching the road, he did not have to feign tiredness, and masked his features. Retreating into the folds of his cloak, he was sure he had been noticed by dozens of passersby. He didn't look up.

The main street was cobblestoned, but either side were mud trails, and other paved roads branching off. Narrow streets led from wider ones, and the twisty, turning path Gareth led them by often found them facing overhanging buildings. From any one of the windows or roof, a crossbowman could end them. Choosing not to think such thoughts was easier said than done, but after a painstakingly long trek down many a side street, they emerged in another courtyard of buildings.

As one, Vai, Gareth and the other two dismounted. Outside, the sign indicated a tavern.

"But this…" Aurifyr did not gape, but his confusion was clear, "Don't you have a stronghold?"

"Too exposed," Vai replied wryly, though still not forgiving him, "the walls are thick, but all it takes is one to get through…"

It was an eerie reminder of his own words about home. Without needing to be told, he meekly followed as Vai stepped inside. While Gareth stabled the horses, his commander rented rooms and ordered baths drawn.

The tavern itself was dark, as to be expected from crowded city buildings. Its rafters were barely two heads away from brushing the tallest of the soldiers, and there were marks to suggest that others had knocked heads against the beams. At a rough calculation, that placed them at eight foot or more! An ogre! Guttering rushes provided light in the evening, but as it was still afternoon, they were unlit. Their particular stink still lingered, and the slow roasting fire at the hearth added to the smoke, along with the inviting smell of stew. At least, Aurifyr supposed, it was meant to be inviting; it smelt of pigeon and other things he did not wish to identify.

As he scanned the chamber, the barkeep, a hard-bitten, lumbering man, fixed them with a hard stare. The other denizens were few, mostly labourers or a few off-duty caravan guards he presumed. Not a single well-to-do merchant or craftsman amongst them. Well, the less people the better… less chance of informants, and less chance of others getting drawn in should assassins come.

As Gareth and the two soldiers stayed, ate and drank downstairs, the elf retired wordlessly. With a frown, Vai's gaze followed him, indulged in a tankard with her men, and headed upstairs. Shaking his head, the iron-haired tracker watched her go and drained his own flagon. Then he waved for another.

Outside the elf's room, Vai paused briefly, then walked away, shaking her head. From within the wooden tub, he heard her measured step, almost as familiar to him as his own, and as she left, he sighed miserably. His body had restored itself at a remarkable rate, nothing but sore ribs and bruises left, but the greater damage had yet to heal. The torture at the Cloakwood mines, the torment from the life loss, of Yeslick, of all he had seen and done. The torching of the Friendly Arm Inn. 'Ris. The huntresses… and now, he was back with Vai, on poor terms, their relationship as volatile as ever, and he little more than a prisoner, captive in a city held in the grips of his foe. If the Iron Throne did not know he was here by now, they would soon. Bounty hunters and worse would assail the inn, or accost him in the street; assassins would dog his every step…

Sinking his head under the tepid water, he closed his eyes and after a moment, surfaced. Gingerly and methodically, he began to dab the dirt away. He stank of horse and sweat, of the road and forest. It had been so long since he was last clean, truly clean…


	47. Captured, part 10

Fifteen minutes or so later, he rapped lightly on her door. Staring at the heavy oak, he heard Vai's sharp intake of breath, followed by her sharp command, "Enter."

As he did, she stared at him. Sat on her bed, armour discarded, its metallic rust and stink covering her padded tunic beside it, she looked over a report. Worry lines betrayed tiredness, and accurately, he read her mood: she did not wish to be disturbed. Damp hair betrayed her quick dip in the tub, and her vigorous scrubbing by the redness of her cheeks. The slight scent of floral soap hung around her.

On a peg hung her muddied white surcoat, the flaming mailed fist emblem burnished. Not a speck of rust touched the golden copper, red bronzed sigil. Her saddlebags lay strewn under it, her broadsword and belt propped against the bed. Her long dagger mounted the bedstand, while the barbed spear rested in the corner. Her mail might stink, but her steel was spotless and within easy reach.

Closing the door behind him, he hesitated against it. Wetting his mouth, he ventured, "I'm sorry." Unable to meet her eyes, he looked to her side, then half turned.

She frowned without warmth, her unblinking stare boring into him, absorbing his every detail. The realisation he was not dressed as usual was noted almost in indifferent, but noted nevertheless.

Forsaking his travelling garb, he had donned a loosely tied, light linen bathrobe of green, a thing she had not seen him in before now. With his customary robe soaked, and leggings and tunic filthy, his only other choice had been those garish golden pantaloons, and he would choose a bathrobe – any bathrobe – over _those_ ghastly things.

"You're sorry? That's all you have to say?" Icy, measured words flayed the air, relentlessly flogging him, but worse was her eyes; flashing steel, they bored, chilly, burning, biting. The muscles in her jaw tightened, her body rigid and face deceptively smooth.

As if struck, his own eyes widened, tensing and slowly, with a controlled breath, allowed, "Yes."

"Oh no you don't," she grated as he reached for the doorknob, "you owe me an explanation for saving your hide."

"Are you willing to hear it?"

Cold silence greeted him in the form of a hard stare.

He was the first to break it, weariness taking hold, "I didn't come here to fight," as soft as her words were harsh, he sighed, "I shouldn't have come. I'm sorry."

"You owe me."

"We were being tracked. Gareth was sleeping; I heard a noise… I investigated."

"So you took it upon yourself–"

"I had intended to infiltrate them, trace back to their source– "

"So your letter said." Tone as cold as winter, its chill was matched only by her gaze. It did not allow for even an inch.

"I had no choice! I couldn't lead them to you! I thought – I thought that if I surrendered to them, if I could _convince_ them to take me alive, they would bring me to those that placed the bounty on my head. That if I could–"

"That if you could what? Seduce that girl? Use her?"

"Yes. If I could do that, then I could escape when the time came. To mark those responsible–" Cutting himself off sharply, he retorted, "You did not have to interfere! Why didn't you trust me? I was going to–"

"Going to what?" She snapped, "What _exactly_ where you planning to do Aurifyr?"

"I was going to find the contact and learn who had put the bounty on my head–"

"And then what? Assassinate them? Break the law? What if you had failed–"

"What if I had succeeded, Vai?"

"And what if you hadn't?" Eyes still furious, had she been a cat, her tail would surely have lashed, "there was no guarantee that you would have been brought before those who placed the bounty, or even that you could convince the contact–"

He sighed. "It was a risk I was willing to–"

"Did you even ever stop to consider for one moment, even one, about my feelings on this? You risked more than just yourself with your reckless stupidity! What if you had been caught and tortured?"

"What if I had? I couldn't tell them anything–"

"Oh really? The bandit's camp; the mine – our entire operation; that we know about them–"

"They no doubt already know! It isn't about that, is it?"

She stared at him, unwilling to look away. Softly, steely, she forced, "No. It's not."

"It was simple, effective–"

"It was foolish, foolhardy and stupid."

"Will you just _look_ for _one_ moment at my reasons–"

"No, _you_ look." She grated, then through her most measured, controlled, low voice warned, "Don't you ever go off your own like that again, or there will be consequences. The mines I understood – barely – but this? What happens next time, Aurifyr?"

He said nothing. As she bit back further comment, she sighed, taking him in anew. In silence, he waited out her gaze, offering no resistance, no apology, no excuse. Finally, she released a long breath.

"You… I don't know whether to name you mad, slap you, or congratulate you. Such audacity…" A note of wonder entered her, and left, her level tone returning, "I forget how dangerous you can be, elf." She crossed her arms, "So our impromptu rescue…"

"Ruined my plan, yes." A hesitant, slight smile, "But… I'm glad you came." Lowering his head, he sighed, "I never meant… never wanted–" lifting his chin, he set his jaw stubbornly, "I saw an opportunity and took it. I knew you would never agree, so–"

"So… you went ahead and did it anyway. Oh… Aurifyr," she sighed, shaking her head, "Do you really think me so close-minded?"

"If you had known… would you have sanctioned it?"

"I… no, no I would not have. Another, perhaps, but not you. Not after – there are other ways, better ways. It has nothing to do with your abilities, far from it, you are more than capable. You risk too much, too often. Don't you realise there's a bounty on your head? They'd have killed you."

"They were taking me there alive–"

"What is _wrong_ with you?! Are you so proud you think can take on – no, we're not having this discussion." She drew in a deep breath, her pale eyes at once soft and hard, framed by her blazing hair, "You are too valuable, elf. An asset I'll not readily squander."

"Is that what I am to you?"

"Damnit, Aurifyr!" Exasperated, she gripped her fists; this time, it was his steady stare that was acutely penetrating. "You – you are the most insufferable – no, the most contrary, contradictory– Gods, what am I to do with you?"

He offered no answer, but his words were quiet, "Good night, Vai." He turned the doorknob.

"Aurifyr, wait."

Freezing, he obeyed, enduring her scrutiny silently, her pale gaze unreadable. Time stretched between them, and over the expanding quiet, he finally allowed, "Nothing happened with that girl."

Her eyes did not believe him. "Then why are you apologising?"

"…For disappointing you. I failed you, and your men. Not only did you rescue me again, back at the Friendly Arm, I disobeyed your order–"

"You're not under my command, Aurifyr." More gently than even his soft words, she sighed, "I shouldn't treat you as if you are. I told you that before. The fault is mine. You're a friend, and you've proven yourself many times. I should have trusted you."

He did not trust himself to answer.

More painfully than if she had shrieked, her quiet question tore through him, "But how do you expect me to if you keep running off?"

"I – …that girl, I had to." Despite himself, his tone became accusing, "I need to know _why_ , need to know _who_ is behind this; I had to prepare an escape; you know that. In such a situation, you exploit any avenue you can find."

"So she meant nothing to you."

"I never actually – if I could convince her to talk, to release me; when the time came, I could have slipped away, tried to–"

"Would you have slit the others' throats while they slept?" Nothing but cold held her words, that pale gaze endless in depth.

"That… that isn't fair. Would you?"

"Yes," she replied simply, "they were the enemy. Showing mercy is not only weakness, it is folly."

"You would have me cut them down in cold blood? What happened to breaking the law?"

"That's different–"

"How?"

"You're not in the city–"

"And that makes a difference?!" His incredulity was such that it did not just border on disbelief, it surpassed it, verging on shock.

"You have cut others down before. We are at war, Aurifyr. It may not be a war of flags and banners, or of nations and treaties, but we are at war nonetheless. They declared it the moment they started ambushing us, taking slaves, slaughtering civilians. We don't have the luxury of pretending otherwise."

"I… thought we were meant to be better than them."

"We are, Aurifyr," She gentled, then firmed, "We are. We uphold and protect the people; we don't plunder the realm and drive it to desperation."

"What about the taxes? What about the struggling people who barely scrape by? Taxing the landowners is one thing, but the commoners? The beggars and urchins? Those have lost everything and who can't pay? The priests – some of the religious orders practically _bathe_ in gold while others break themselves working the fields. You can't deny how harsh… and the nobles cowering behind their walls when they're meant to defend them!"

"I know it isn't perfect, but… filling the coffers has to come from somewhere; we need equipment, food, supplies, horses… it isn't as simple as you make it out to be. Once the bandit threat has been eliminated – and we have gone a long way to achieving that – things can slowly return to normal, and everything will settle. The merchants _can_ afford it. Even though there are harsh years ahead as everything stabilises, at least they are _alive_. We will empty the treasury to prevent famine if we have to, import grain through Baldur's Gate, but what use will that do if none of it reaches the people?"

Her gaze locked, astute, infinitely tender while a torrent of undercurrents raged; buried beneath all the flat, cold demand was concern, fear, and most of all, hurt. She did not push it aside, but her endless pale depths swallowed her torment, reaching out to him, "But that isn't what this is about, is it? You were with me and my men; then you vanished. What happened?"

"I was with you…"

"You were one of us."

Unwilling to answer, he looked away. As his gaze met the floorboards, images of the Friendly Arm Inn filled his mind. The plunder buried beneath the rubble, the lives lost over it. "I'm… sorry. I couldn't let them find you. I couldn't… Sooner or later, I would have led them to you. I couldn't. Not… not again."

Her sigh echoed through the room, "It's over, it's done–"

Startled, he glanced up at her.

"What happened in the forest is done." She clarified, shocked and appealed in equal measure by his naked flash of fear. Did he really think she would cast him aside? As he opened his mouth, she gently overrode him, "Will you stop apologising?"

Slowly, he shook his head, not rejecting or embracing her peace offering, "It's not that."

"Then what?"

He refused to face her, "I – I keep questioning you. It's unfair of me to, and…" Deeply, and sharply, he inhaled, "you're deserving of my thanks, my praise, not criticisms when it isn't even your fault. You – you risked yourself and your men for me; your men have _died_ because of me…"

The burnt out ruins of the Friendly Arm flared up again, the stakes where men had been torched alive, "People have died because of me… innocents… women, children… gods, your men were tortured…"

The gaze she levelled was long and hard; he did not shy away, but stared back, haunted. As the quiet settled over them again, at last, she said simply, "You're not leaving this room tonight."

"Vai–"

"There's a reason you came here."

"To apologise. Vai, I–"

"No Aurifyr." She shook her head, "That wasn't all."

"I don't understand."

For a moment, she watched him; he stiffened, ready to bolt. Quietly, her words floated to him, "Don't you?"

"I didn't come here for – _that_." Uncomfortably, he shifted his weight, "If that's what you think–"

"Come here," Life-hardened features softened as she smiled, patting the bed beside her. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

He glanced away, "I…" Troubled, he shook his head, changing what he was about to stay. "I'm… glad you weren't at the Friendly Arm. I mourn for those lost, but… I… I couldn't bear to lose you as well."

Sharply, her eyes narrowed, but then it was gone. "Sit," she repeated, patting the covers again. Painstakingly, he crossed the room, and lowered himself, unable to look at her. "I wouldn't want to lose you either," She placed a hand on his shoulder, and seeing his scepticism, reinforced with a squeeze, "I mean that. You're a valued ally and a friend."

Still not convinced, he nodded and looked away.

"Aurifyr… what happened down there?"

Not understanding, he stared blankly.

"In the mines." She did not remove her hand. "Ever since you got back…"

Closing his eyes, he drew in a breath, and began, his words quiet and strange to his ears, "I… lost a friend." As she waited for him to continue, he inhaled again, "he fell in the final fight against the mine's master; he was one of those I liberated. They kept slaves… those from the raids."

Both knew there was more he wasn't telling her, but her reply was gentle; "I'm sorry. I know it isn't much, but at least he died free."

Staring at some distant point, he nodded. He did not mention the elf he had fought and killed, or the wyvern that stalked him.

Rising, she stood. "Ready yourself for bed, Aurifyr."

"What about my things?" He glanced up, then quickly averted his eyes.

"I'll fetch them." She fixed another long look on him, "I meant it when I said you're not leaving here tonight."

Despite himself, a slow flush warmed his cheeks, "I–"

"Hush." Shaking her head, she sighed, "I'm not convinced leaving you alone tonight is such a good idea. You're still shaken." Squeezing his shoulder, she held his gaze, "I've seen it enough times to know."

Slowly, he nodded, then a panicked thought struck him, "Wait, what will your men say? Won't this spread rumours…?"

"It's none of their business," Her answer was firm, dismissing his fears despite his objections, "and if they have questions, they can bring them to me."

Abruptly, he decided it wasn't a good idea to inquire further, but simply dipped his head. With another squeeze, she smiled, "You'd best be here when I get back. If I find you gone…"

"My room is just across the hall…"

"I know." The warmth in her eyes took the edge off her sting, "And my bedroll was a few feet from where you stood watch."

He hadn't the good grace to redden even a little.

With that, she left and returned to find him already tucked undercovers. Robe cast aside unselfconsciously, he seemed strangely vulnerable and yet, peaceful. Behind this a wariness was etched that many would have missed; recognising it from herself and her own men, Vai knew it to be bred from a life spent with one eye opened when on the road. Not truly relaxed, however serene he looked, tiny telltale signs revealed he was ready to snatch up her discarded broadsword at an instant's notice.

Smiling, she shook her head, bolted the door and made her way to the other side of the bed, her step calm and measured. Unceremoniously, she dumped his things; sheathed blade and belt, dagger and satchel, and hung his damp garments to dry. With the same unruffled dignity she possessed on the trail, she sat, and back turned, tugged off her undershirt.

Glancing over at him, she inquired with a half smile and raised brow, "Never seen a woman before? Whatever happened to your standing watch while I dressed, or bathed? You didn't expect me to sleep on the _floor_ , did you?"

Startled, he shook his head, unconsciously tracing her battle-scarred body with his mind's eye. Crisscrossed and littered, her fair skin bore the marks of many a scuffle. Toned and defined, her back betrayed the many hours of yard practice. The image of Natasha rose, leaning in, lush and seductive, then of her charred form, blackened and ruined. Banishing it, he shifted aside, unconcerned by the sight, he shrugged.

Musically, she laughed, but not at him, "You never cease to surprise me, Aurifyr." Fondly, that same knowing smile caressed her lips, "But don't worry your pretty elfin head; I don't intend to sleep like this." The light in her eyes were sly, amused, "So did you want to sleep, or would you rather talk…?" From over her shoulder, her gaze lingered, mock-questioningly, deliberately running over him.

"I'm not – I told you, I didn't… not with…"

Somehow, his tongue locked, and he shook himself inwardly. What had happened to his easy manner, his… Ris… Anguished, he thrust himself deeper into the straw mattress.

"Hey, easy." Vai cajoled, concern filling her, "Gods, Aurifyr… you look like you've seen a ghost."

"I… sorry. I just… can't… stop thinking about… it."

Understanding, she twisted and gathering the sheets to her, gripped his shoulder. For several moments, she just looked into his eyes, and they shared silence.

"I keep seeing them… the blood, the fire, the fading light…"

"Stop punishing yourself, those deaths were not your fault. You are not to blame; those responsible for the deed – they are the ones at fault, not you."

He shook his head, brushing aside her words.

"Auri… this isn't about the Friendly Arm, is it?"

Again, he shook his head, tormented by the shadow in his eyes.

"This is about Cloakwood, isn't it?" At his slight nod, she sighed, "Whatever happened down there?"

He couldn't reply; freezing as the waking memory assaulted him. Confronted by the pain of his capture, and the monster he'd become, he could no longer hide behind the exhausting journey, unable to continue burying himself in the cruelty of his huntresses.

The flooded mines rushed back to him, those who had drowned in the tunnels in darkness, cut off from light and air. Buried alive… the descent of the elevator; awaking to chains. Natasha's face, her scent, her opened robes… her fractured mind, her will splintering under the power of his. The sickly taint, the dark ichor; the filth he felt. Defiled, polluted… shame, then and now.

He had succumbed; his hands, his very soul was stained. The power was addictive… he had listened to the cold logic, to the dreamself. He had acted out of necessity, but he had caused himself to be there to begin with. Never before had he felt so _unclean_. The rawness of his wrists and throat he had felt, the flickering promise of Natasha's knife was nothing before that. Not even the thug's insinuations and touch could compare. He felt sickened. How could Vai even look at him? How could he look at himself?

His headshake more a convulsion, he twisted away; before he could fully turn, she caught him. Eyes wide and filled with pain, he buried his face against her. She held him, rocking him gently; he did not need to be a mind reader to know her thought: what could have possibly happened to cause this?

The worst part was, he couldn't tell her.

She did not urge him to speak, just silently coaxed him to relax. And then something in him gave. Somehow, his voice began to work, choked, then the words tumbled out, the floodgates bursting. Against her breast, his tale of Cloakwood's mines spilled incoherently, mostly muddled, then with startling clarity.

Weathering the fierce intensity, she simply listened. Hatred seared his tone, softening as he spoke of Stephen, hardening as he cursed Davaeron, his venom the like of which she had never heard from him. He spoke of his capture, the hunters lying in wait at the guardhouse, the fire, even the elder wyvern. He told of Natasha, his bondage, and of Yeslick.

If she had questions, she did not voice them. Most prevalent would be 'how?', but of his heritage, of the taint, the black ichor, the blood magick, he revealed nothing. Finally, he allowed himself to accept the horror of what had happened, to grieve. For the dead, for himself. And with it, noiseless tears. All the while, she held him, her own eyes dry, their light at once protective and vengeful.

The dreamself was silent.


	48. Baldur's Gate, part 1

_Baldur's Gate_

The assassin came for him, as he knew they would. In the chill of the dawn, they broke into the tavern. The clatter against the stairs alerted him long before his assailant was aware of his waking. Without bothering to don his cowled robe, he had thrown on his sword belt and shrugged himself into his leggings. Quiver against his thigh, and bow stung and warmed in his hand, he had slipped out barefoot to meet his would-be killer.

At a staggering eight feet, the ogre's hideous face towered up the stairs. Putrid olive skin lined his gnarled features, and in meaty fist a spiked mace waved. The cruel light of hate was matched only by his slowness. Its blood stained, patched jerkin, old boots and stitched britches stank. A spiked collar guarded his neck and he wore his filthy hair in a topknot.

"You!" the monster growled, even as the inn's other occupants were rudely awoken, "Larze know your face! You him! Die elfling!"

"I'm who?" Aurifyr called out, backing away as he notched an arrow. Before the Fist could burst out, he had to keep the ogre talking or fell him alone…

"Him! The one in the picture!" Irritated, Larze took another step up the stairs, banged his head and cursed.

"Maybe you should look again?"

"No! Larze not stupid! You picture elf! Larze take your head! Larze have prize of gold!"

Discarding the danger and feeling the situation was more than slightly surreal, keeping his bow lowered, the elf calmly inquired, "Do I look like someone whose head would be worth much? Surely you want a mighty warrior?"

The ogre paused, just shy of bashing his head again, and scratched at his jaw, "Larze know what Larze saw. But you puny elfling. All elfs puny."

"All elfs look the same." Maybe he should yell for aid… "Larze think such puny elf worth prize of gold?"

Hesitating, the monster frowned, one step from the hall, "Picture had elf."

"Did it?" How had they captured his face? Thankful he had no time to fix his shoulder-length hair, he queried, "Larze see elf ears?" A squint followed, and the ogre took a half step forward, "Look Larze! Hair wrong. Clothes wrong."

"Huh?" Puzzled, Larze stared.

"Larze need to find elf with fire-eyes, evil stare. Tall, strong elf." A twisted thought entered his mind, but he dismissed it as soon as it had arrived: alerting the Iron Throne he knew they were aware of him was not smart. Realising that he might be sending the ogre after some poor innocent, he added with just a touch of spite, "Larze looking in wrong place. Elf Larze needs is in Cloakwood."

"Eh? Elf in city! You elf!" Larze rumbled, using the tip of his mace to scratch his wide, flat nose, "You try to confuse Larze!"

"Elfs live in forest. Cities not for elfs. Elf Larze seek in Cloakwood, near big rocks. Mound of rocks. Larze strong, tall, see rocks easy. Elf wear robe?"

"Yes! You see elf?"

"Elf in Cloakwood." Wondering if the ogre had been brained or dropped as a child repeatedly, he spoke slowly, "Larze find big rocks; elf in cave. Larze go over bridge, to trees past river. Larze look for rocks, for caves. Larze find elf, then bring back for prize of gold. Larze tell no one, or they steal elf first. Larze go quickly, or elf escape!"

That decided him. Bashing his head as he turned, he ambled down the staircase, not quite sure what to believe, but hungry for the bounty.

Aurifyr breathed a long, slow sigh of relief. More than a little shaken, he scrubbed his hand through his hair, wondering why he was still alive. That mace would have crushed his ribcage in one swipe.

The door nearest the stairs opened slowly. Swords drawn, Gareth and the other two soldiers stepped into view. The elf gave them an unreadable look.

"You're fortunate he was such a dullard." Vai commented dryly, lounging in the adjacent doorway at the end of the hall, "You have an uncanny knack with words."

Completely unruffled, she was immaculate in her white surcoat, her eyes were alert and guarded. Not so much a flicker from her lips, but her face was hard.

"I almost feel sorry for him."

She narrowed her eyes, "Oh?"

"I sent him towards the wyvern's nest."

The blood drained from the face of one soldier. Vai tapped the pommel of her broadsword, belted around her waist.

"Something you care to tell me, Aurifyr?"

"Uh…" Abashed, he glanced towards the stairwell, wondering if it was too late to run after Larze… Sighing in resignation, he allowed, "You remember I mentioned Cloakwood?"

"Yes."

"Well, a giant elder wyvern may have stalked me…"

" _May_ have?" Her tone was dangerously mild.

Pained, he screwed up his face, shooing her without gesture towards their shared room. This was not a thing he wished overheard. Gareth's hard-bitten face was filled with disgust, but the second soldier's eyes were alight with curiosity. Dropping his tone, he prompted, "At the mines…"

"The mines _you_ flooded."

The collective gasps and slack eyed jaw drops did not help. It would only spawn rumour and gossip. "Yes, those ones. I fired the guardhouse, and the smoke drew the wyvern. It saw me and I tricked it into impaling itself on the sharpened palisade. It flew off. I saw the peaks in the high regions of the forest, and it seemed a safe bet that's where the beast made its home."

"Had he not been so simple-minded, it wouldn't have worked."

"Then be grateful he was. You court Fortune and woo her as a maiden, elf. Be careful you don't pay with your life."

Shaking his head, he helplessly met the dubious and angry stares of her subordinates. The flash of hatred in Gareth's grey eyes was a cause of concern, and he made a note to speak with the tracker later. That he now shared a room with Vai had obviously not gone unnoticed by the man. Without further comment, he stepped past Vai, murmuring, "We can't stay here."

She closed the door behind him.

As soon as they were alone, he spun to face her, "How did they know I was here anyway? How did they know my face?"

Troubled, she frowned, "I don't know."

"I knew this would happen!"

"You knew an ogre would track you here?" Her eyebrow lifted, the look she levelled sceptical.

"Gods and demons, Vai," he swore, "You know what I mean! I told you the city wasn't safe!"

"You know… I think that may be the first time I've heard you swear."

He stopped, biting back a retort. Then he shook his head, "I need to dress."

A smile touched the edges of her lips, "I'm not stopping you." With a slight sniff, half in challenge, she offered a pointed look.

Muttering obscenities to himself, he stomped over to his side of the bed, stripped off his leggings with a kick, barely pausing to loosening the ties, and rummaged for his loincloth. His back remained turned. As he roughly pulled on his undertunic, Vai commented, "We'll see my commander, Scar. I was going to wait until after breakfast, but we'll leave as soon as you're ready."

Sourly, he grunted his acknowledgement. Yanking on his boots, he turned and met her steady gaze; she had watched him the entire time.

"Your belt's loose," she observed, and added by way of casual afterthought, "Don't forget your dagger; it's under your pillow."

He could have growled.


	49. Baldur's Gate, part 2

The Flaming Fist's stronghold was exactly what Aurifyr had expected; a small keep rising a couple of stories above the shops and towers at each corner. Its large double doors were thick, heavy and reinforced, and murderholes and arrowloops dotted various strategic points. He shivered; it would take a small army to storm this place.

Twin guards stood watch and offered curt nods to Vai; she returned it. Like the rest of their brothers, they wore breastplates over chainmail and hefted embossed shields and heavy broadswords.

As they rode through the gates, he examined the stonework more closely. A mob would have trouble overcoming the defences, but a professional force could overcome it. The walls of the Friendly Arm had been thicker, and there was no outer wall. Perhaps there was a compound at the back?

Dismounting in the covered forecourt, Vai led them through the hall's doors while more guards took their steeds. It was painfully obvious that these weren't servants, or page boys, but fully fledged Flaming Fist enforcers. It took all he had not to straighten his cowled robes, or tug the hood of his cloak further down his face. As they walked, it was clear the guards took note of his broadsword, dagger, quiver and bow. Vai took no notice, and Gareth and her two soldiers flanked her.

The hall itself was spacious, and instead of tables, there were training dummies. There _were_ tables, but those were at the far end, and benches sat beside them. There were no chairs here, and the flagstones gritted with sand, soaked with the stale ale of nights before. Rushes lined the tables' undersides, and the walls were plain. Only the Fist's emblem hung.

Nearby men trained, and the heavy stench of sweat hung on the air, mixing with guttering tallow torches. Some half stripped, others in full armour, they battled with sword, mace, staff and axe. Others fired quarrel after quarrel into straw targets, some man-shaped, others swinging sticks suspended on ropes. Yet others stilled circled one another, fists bound in strips of linen, to the jeers, cat calls and cheers of their fellows. More than one man was bruised and bloodied. Scattered around, iron braziers offered paltry heat and subtle glow. Between the flickers and dancing shadows, men lived, seemingly indifferent to the world outside their walls as they readied themselves for it. Even here, within the security of the stronghold, those not bared from the waist up all wore mail. Not a single man was unarmed.

Taking it in stride, Vai seemed indifferent to the scene and headed towards a spiral stone staircase. Offsetting the gloom, more tallow torches were interspersed, suggesting the Fist had more wealth than met the eye, despite the low-grade torches. Briefly, he thought of home, the dusty tomes, shelves upon shelves of tomes, and the candles. He had never considered the cost, not truly. Now his mind flashed to the bandit plunder buried under the Friendly Arm. How long before the Fist sent men with picks? Probably not long…

Barely pausing, Vai ascended the second story and confidently led them down a door-lined hallway. Light streamed in from the arrowslits, and there was nothing to show the stronghold was anything more than a military installation. Without glass or shutters to plug the gaps, draughts added to the stones' chill. Glad of his cloak, he followed in silence, taking note of as much as he could. All of the doors were diamond studded and reinforced with bars; no weapons crossed the walls, nor any sort of wooden panelling or tapestries. The walls' finish was rough, the beams low and the stone undressed. Finally, Vai stopped outside of a door, and addressed Gareth, her words oddly low, "Wait here. You two as well."

Gareth hesitated, then drawing himself up, nodded once. Vai smiled, and the two exchanged a firm forearm clasp, displaying a rarely seen fondness from commander to subordinate. Both soldiers bowed their heads and Vai met them each in turn. "Wait for me."

Somehow, it was phrased as a request and a promise; their answer was a sharp snap of their heels as they stood to attention. It was not for her rank they honoured her. Curtly, she nodded, the softness fading. Then she turned, "Aurifyr, come."

An invitation, a command. Wordlessly, he followed.


	50. Baldur's Gate, part 3

The chamber was unlike that of the stronghold; for one, it was _warm_. A fire burned at the stone hearth, and thick woollen drapes hugged the walls. Dull reds served as a backdrop for vivid oranges, muted greens and light blues. Yellows woven in gave form to battles, stylised warriors all bearing the Fist's emblem. In triumph and defeat, they stood against their foes, history captured in thread, the story of their order. In the centre, the banner itself hung, flames rising around a mailed fist over a field of blood red.

Twin posts stood beside the silk banner, former torches for night marches. Even here, no weapons decorated the chamber, and only a desk and cabinet betrayed any form of bureaucracy. In front of the fire stood an armoured man, his white surcoat identical to Vai's, though his plate, shield and long plumed helm were born by a wooden stand in the corner. Like Vai, his hair was cut short, though his head was shaved, and a evil looking scar split his cheek from temple to jaw. His nose had been broken and never properly reset, and at least one arrow had clipped his stubbled chin. Long-since healed dents and other faded scars covered his grizzled head. Even a chunk of his ear was missing.

Broad shoulders held up the ringmail with ease, despite his middle years. As the door closed behind them, the two officers regarded each other expressionlessly. It was impossible to tell if it was veiled animosity, indifference or professionalism.

"Vai."

"Sir."

"I'm 'Scar', second in command of the Flaming Fist," his gaze lingered on Vai's before he took the elf, "I have to say you have caused quite the commotion." His eyes snapped back to his subordinate, "His grace wants to see you. Both of you. I'm sorry, but its out of my hands." He hardened, "His grace wants answers, and so do I."

Vai inclined her head stiffly.

The elf remained as impassive.

"No objections? Good. I am afraid you will have to wait; his grace is inspecting the walls."

"The walls? Why?" Vai's interrupted abruptly. Beside her, Aurifyr's gaze thinned.

"You haven't heard? There are rumours Amn is preparing for war."

"Impossible."

"You've been away too long." Regarding the pair, Scar instructed curtly, "Wait here; I'll see what can be done to hurry the delay."

With that, he left, his stride long and crisp.


	51. Baldur's Gate, part 4

Silence reigned. Though he did not feel like speaking, and Vai was absorbed with her own thoughts, Aurifyr idly examined the tapestries.

Vai's stare locked on him; she did not have to tell him to mind himself. Infuriatingly, he offered no sign he'd heard, but continued his viewing. The smallest detail had been captured, right down to the straps on the armour, and buckles on the belt. Not quite lifelike, the figures were tall, broad, and their faces covered. They battled many foes, within and without the city. One tapestry depicted the city on fire, and rioting through the streets. Another saw them crossing the Cloudpeak Mountains.

Half an hour later, Scar returned, and with him was a clean shaven, thin man in a green brocaded doublet and black hose and hat. From the shoulder, a short cloak dangled over his offhand, while a longer cloak reached his ankles. His taste was current: smart without being fussy, yet precise. Beside a narrow sword, a long, jewelled dirk hung from his scrollwork adorned black belt and a wide signet ring decorated his hand.

Despite his garb, there was a crispness about him, an almost military snap to his step and he wore his rapier with an indifferent ease. This, and a thousand other small things indicated the mark of a man who had seen battle, on the field and at court, and knew how to handle himself. The blade was no toy. His cool eyes were astute and drank in every detail about the room, his 'guests', everywhere at once and nowhere, piercing to the soul. There was a knowing about him, as if somehow, he had seen a lifetime of lies and falsehoods.

Urbane, and polished, his accent was refined without being arrogant. Without speaking down, he greeted simply, "Commander."

"Your grace."

"I would like to hear your report, but first," cool grey eyes flickered towards Aurifyr, "introductions are in order. I am Duke Eltan, commander of the Flaming Fist."

"Aurifyr." Face impassive, he offered no more, aware his lack of location was noted. Beside him, Vai hardened, showing nothing beyond a slight tensing of her features.

"I would be interested in learning how exactly you fit into this." The duke continued, ignoring his subordinate, and then his gaze moved to her, "And how you have returned with so few men. A full company was assigned to you, yet word reaches me the Friendly Arm Inn fell, razed to the ground."

"You are remarkably well informed," Aurifyr did not quite drawl, but his words held a coolness he rarely invoked, "for one who refused to reinforce your own facing vastly superior foes."

Vai silenced him with a look, eyes blazing and pride stung. "You exaggerate," She said flatly.

"Do I?"

The two locked stares, and only Eltan's words separated them, "Perhaps you should begin at the beginning. How did you come to be in the commander's service?"

Glancing at Vai, offering the telling to her. When she did not respond, he shrugged, "I first met Vai…"


	52. Baldur's Gate, part 5

"And that is how I came to travel with Vai."

"Interesting. I see you are a man of many talents." Astute eyes steadily regarded him, "There is much to discuss, I think."

Throughout, Vai remained stiffly silent. Scar too, said nothing.

"Who are you, elf? That you appear out of nowhere. Where are you from?"

"A bastard."

"Aurifyr!" Vai hissed, then moderated her tone, "Please excuse him, your grace. His manners leave much to be desired." From her look, she could have kicked him.

"It's all right; I am no stranger to coarse language."

"Why the interest in me? What warrants a duke's interest?"

"The bounty on your head has not gone unnoticed. Even had you not chosen to neglect that detail, I would have raised it. I do not often take interest in such things, but less savoury circles have been drawn to its reward. A steadily rising reward, for which no explanation has been given or found. I have my own agents, Aurifyr, and no one can turn up anything on you, or indeed, the one responsible for its posting. Who wants your death so badly they offer an earl's ransom for your head?"

Vai stared at him.

"You seem surprised, commander. Were you unaware of the price on your friend's head?"

"Yes, but… an earl's ransom? I do not mean to question your grace, but–"

"I do not exaggerate." He addressed Aurifyr, "You have some very powerful enemies. I want to know why, and what threat you pose to this city."

He met the duke's grey eyes coolly, "I am neither enemy to you, nor your city."

After a moment, Eltan leaned back, "Aye, I believe you, elf." His lips did not quite purse, "but I'll not make the mistake of believing you to be harmless. You're dangerous." His gaze flickered towards Vai, "After that… business at Nashkel, well, shall we say, there are those who might suspect you of being an Amnish agent."

"You know about Nashkel? …Your grace."

"And what would _you_ say?" Calmly, Aurifyr ignored Vai's interruption, as did Eltan.

"I say you are not what you appear." Eltan stroked the edges of his chin, as if he had recently shaved off a triangular beard and had forgotten, "You do not strike me as an agent, Amnish or otherwise. No, there is more to you than meets the eye." His look became knowing, sharply focusing as unseen pieces clicked in his mind, "Your kind is not so common that you can pass unnoticed for long, not if you leave a trail in your wake. My spies confirm there was at least one other elf in the area, and there are rumours, though how credible is open to question, about a third elf. One dispatched from Evereska."

"They're both dead."

Eltan's eyes widened slightly, then he nodded. "You have knowledge of their fates?"

"You – you never mentioned this," Vai growled almost to herself. Then she promptly fell silent.

"A bounty hunter felled the Evereska agent. He is now dead."

"And the second?"

"Driven mad with grief. I encountered him briefly in Cloakwood. Before he killed himself, he spoke of how his lover was tortured before his eyes, and mentioned the leader of a camp of bandits we had razed responsible. Upon reflection, I believe the one responsible for his torment was 'Tazok'."

"Tazok… I have heard of that." Eltan frowned, "I will have to search through my agent's reports, but I have heard that name."

Vai shot the elf a long, hard look; it promised there would be words later. She had not missed his neglect to mention whole truth over the grieving elf's demise.

"How did he come to meet you?"

"He found me." Aurifyr shrugged in a very humanlike manner, "He needed to share his tale."

"Convenient that he would just take his own life. You had no part in this?"

"He was dead before I arrived." Eyes flashing, Aurifyr met the duke's calm coldly, "If you knew our kind, you would know what happens when our soul-bonded expires, especially violently. We become shadows, wraiths, half living, half dead."

Slowly, Eltan stroked his chin, "Aye, I know. I had to ask." He paused deliberately, "Now, I would hear more about this bandit camp. What else have you learnt?"

"Vai – the letters." Aurifyr prompted, "I believe the organisation the 'Iron Throne' to be responsible."

"That is a troubling accusation."

"Aye," Scar spoke up suddenly, "but one that may not be so far-fetched, your grace."

"I concur."

Vai held out the satchel deferentially, formally offering it to her liege.

Eltan gave her a long look, but chose not to say anything on the topic, "I will review these at my leisure."

"They are conclusive proof of the involvement of someone within the upper echelons within the Iron Throne."

"And there are no other copies of these?"

"None."

"Commander?"

"No, your grace."

"Then we must take care of these. Scar?"

"Yes, your grace?"

"After I have heard the rest of the tale, debrief and enlist those loyal to us. If the 'Throne is trying for a bid for power, I want this stronghold and the ducal palace secure. It is more likely that they will back a claimant." Something passed between the two men. "We've had our eye on the 'Throne for a while now. Your report is disturbing. Now, the rest, if you please."

Aurifyr exchanged another look with Vai, shrugged and began.


	53. Baldur's Gate, part 6

"And these four women, these bounty huntresses, they said they were working for the Iron Throne?" Eltan's eyes were sharper than the blade at his side, "And they made mention of others in the 'Throne's employ seeking you? I think that is enough evidence, don't you?"

"Aye, your grace. More than enough."

"A pity you were unable to capture any alive." Another astute flicker towards a deadpan Vai.

"That was my fault," Aurifyr spoke up, "Vai was not aware of my plan, and her instructions were to take _me_ alive. Unfortunately, one chose to place a dagger at my throat and bargain my life for hers."

"I can speak for myself, Aurifyr." Then she conceded, "Though what you say is true."

"I see. Well, we shall discuss this failing at another time. You have done well. Both of you." Eltan nodded, almost to himself, "We owe you a debt. The loss of the Cloakwood mines is unfortunate, but if you would be so good as to provide their location, we can send an expedition to begin draining and salvage. It will take little convincing, I think, for the other dukes and nobles to fund the clearing and construction of a road. The 'Throne will no doubt be opposed, and will no doubt send assassins against me unless weakened first."

"They wouldn't dare! Your grace."

"Do not underestimate them, Scar. No, if my hunch is correct, we shall soon be at war with Amn, and the Throne stand to make a great deal of profit. That, however, thanks to you, has been lessened considerably." He inclined his head, "I give you leave to continue your… investigations, here in my city." The briefest pause, "and Aurifyr? Try not to make too much of a mess."

"I can't make any promises."

"I suppose not." Eltan shook his head almost to himself, and then added, "I suppose you are due some form of reward. Nashkel, Cloakwood, the bandit threat… you have done us a great service. It is tragic the Friendly Arm fell, but it can be rebuilt. You, I believe, are entitled to a share of the trove."

The duke's gaze drifted towards Vai, "You are to be commended commander. You have done well, despite difficult circumstances and loses. Your… procuring of such capable agents, no matter how unorthodox their methods, takes daring and initiative. See that the rest of your work is carried out with such consideration and valour, and you may yet take Scar's job."

Scar barked a harsh laugh.

"I do my duty, your grace."

"Just so. And you, Aurifyr, what will you ask as your prize?"

"I want the Iron Throne brought low. Vai has to answer for her actions, but I would take it as a personal favour if you gave due consideration to the circumstances – and gave me leave to do what needs to be done." Their eyes locked. "Someone seeks my head; I would see his parted from his neck first. When I find him – I do not wish the law to hinder that."

Eltan frowned, then laughed, "You're not afraid to speak your mind. I like that. Just see you don't take it too far. Consider your request granted. Will you enlist in my service?"

"Should I be honoured or concerned?"

"Think on it."

The duke nodded, then turned to Scar, "See that what needs doing is done." With that, he marched from the room, satchel under one arm.

For several long moments, the scarred second of the Flaming Fist regarded them both. "Not many dare address the duke so," he allowed finally, "an' you've made an impression." Drawing himself up, he paused deliberately, "This is more than enough to investigate the Iron Throne. I charge you to investigate their dealings; bring back conclusive proof. Otherwise all you've shown is circumstantial."

"No." Vai found her voice, cutting across her superior's, "his face is known. You can't mean to send him there–"

"I have little choice. You heard the duke. If he is correct, some of our men are bought. You know as well as I there is only one way so many bandits could have slipped unnoticed–"

"You're sending him to his death!"

"It's all right. I'll go."

"Aurifyr!"

Ignoring her, he matched looks with Scar, "I want to find out the source of this as much as you. Our goals are compatible."

"You'll be reimbursed, and well paid."

"I would rather have the law behind me than not." More quietly, he turned to Vai and never blinked, "I'll need you to watch my back, and keep any hunters from entering."

"I'm not under your authority–"

"No; you'll be working _jointly_. Find out what you can, then return here. If you have enough, I'll be able to authorise the storming of the building."

"I'll find out what I can." He nodded stiffly.

"Ledgers, accounts, papers, _anything_ that would incriminate them. They'll be locked away, probably in the uppermost level, or in the vault. Expect safes and strongboxes."

"It may take more than one night."

"Do what you can."

While Vai fumed silently, her stare flashing furiously, Scar exchanged curt a nod and a firm arm-clasp with Aurifyr. "Gods go with you."

Aurifyr chose not to reply.

"Vai, a moment."

"I'll be along shortly, Aurifyr. Tell Gareth to meet me in the Low Lantern."

A nod, and then he ghosted away, Eltan's instruction ringing in his mind, _"Do what needs to be done."_


	54. Baldur's Gate, part 7

"Vai said you're to accompany me to the Low Lantern," Aurifyr intoned to the tracker indifferently. Facing the hard-bitten man's flash of quickly suppressed anger coolly, the elf added, "You two are to wait. Vai is reporting and receiving her orders. Cover your breastplates."

Without further comment, he strode expressionlessly down the hallway, and muttering curses and vile oaths, Gareth followed, hand hovering over his broadsword. Before he could speak, Aurifyr cut in, "Lead the way."

The iron-haired tracker bit back his retort and simply shoved in front of the elf. Following in silence, half a step behind, Aurifyr matched Gareth's steady pace as they wove their way down the spiral stairs, and through the Fist's halls. Past training and watchful soldiers both, those on guard and off, they cut through the murky keep and then through the heavy, iron-hardened double doors.

As soon as they stepped outside, a wave of city air and sunlight hit them through the parted clouds, and the chilly wind tore at their cloaks.

"Leave the horses," Aurifyr commented almost in passing, and looked into the crowds. Splotches of colour splattered the dirty streets, and the courtyard was filled with the cries of hawkers and bustle of people attending their day-to-day lives. Feeling very much alone, a stranger, outlander, and very much aware that every pair of eyes could belong to a foe's, Aurifyr pulled his hood further up. He should have invested in a new cloak and robes. Traveller's cloak in forest green was no camouflage here. "We need to take a detour. These," he picked at his robes, "are too known."

Gareth chose not to reply, but his expression was clear. He was distinctly unimpressed; the light in his eyes bordered on open animosity.

"We're not lovers," Aurifyr spoke softly, meeting the other's gaze after sweeping the crowds.

The tracker bristled.

"You're a good man; I have no quarrel with you."

"You shared her bed."

"But not her touch." Sighing, his eyes did not leave the milling crowds, "We talked. I was exhausted. Nothing more than that. You have my word." Slight amusement flickered as his lips pursed, the light in his eyes shrewd, "I had much to report."

"This time." Gareth growled, and stalked into masses. Shaking his head, the elf followed.

Three stalls later, a seamstress and a swordsmith boasting 'tempered steel' in the latest fashion, and Aurifyr emerged in blue, a showpiece rapier at his side. His travelling robes traded for hose and tunic, his long cloak switched for a shorter one, in the style of Duke Eltan's, and his boots were polished black. His former garb rolled and stuffed into a rucksack, under a second set of black clothes…

After a couple more trips to two very ordinary shops, a blacksmith's and a ship's rope-maker, they headed towards the quays. Sailor's canvas bag slung over one shoulder, Aurifyr mentally ran through his various purchases. What it amounted to was enough to assemble a makeshift grappling hook, 'climbing claws', and a few dozen other smaller items. The gulls' cries pierced through his silent inventory.

Briefly, his eyes closed and the memory of windswept shores gazed at from the tallest tower of a walled keep. The stench of sea brine, the damp and the docks permeated, the memory of crisp salt air flared. Clean gales, free of the polluting stink, away from the ships cluttering the docks, the bustle of city life, sailors and whores alike, only the crash of distant waves upon the cliffs far below. The call of an osprey, its swooping and diving around the coast's brackish rock pools, and the shriek of the gulls above it. Bright blue skies, foamy seas, shadows cast from roaming clouds on land and deep both, and Cloakwood's forests in the distance. All alone atop the battlements.

Banishing the image, he glanced over to the massive structure the Iron Throne overlooking the docks from afar. Situated near the warehouses, away from the inner city wall, and far from the other merchant cartels, the colossal monstrosity towered several stories above the surrounding buildings, aloof and dominating. He had seen its dark walls and arches, turrets and four steeples, and ridden under its long shadow as they headed towards the Fist's stronghold. That its shadow fell over several streets only increased his sense of foreboding. Barring the fortified keep on the hill, the ducal palace, it was easily the tallest building in the city.

Vai had been sharp with a curt 'Stay close', as they brushed through the packed streets, her guards surrounding him on all sides. His eyes drifted to the top of the tiled roof, and its iron-fenced balcony. Such a dizzying height. Did his foes stand there and gaze out over the city, knowing they would own it? He shivered, and turned away from the spiked fence that surrounded the compound. Gareth was watching him coldly.

"So now what?"

"The Low Lantern, I suppose, unless you prefer to peruse the shops?"

The tracker's stare was icy; neither had forgotten the ogre, or their conversation. Aurifyr sighed, "First round's on me."

Gareth did not bother to respond.


	55. Baldur's Gate, part 8

The inn was what Aurifyr had come to expect. Dank, dingy, low beamed roof, sticky floors ripe with scattered puddles of stale ale. What he had not expected was the hull of an old ship, stripped of its original crates and refurbished with rickety tables, benches and stools. From top to bottom, it had four decks, cramped, and ill-suited to those gracing six feet or more. The noise was appropriate for the time of day, and while the moored vessel occasionally rolled, its patrons did not seem to notice. Scattered and few in number, many were well into their cups and only the portholes betrayed the afternoon's grey.

Their table was in a dull corner, and with his back against two walls, Aurifyr studied the waves through the clouded glass. Where he leaned was once a bulkhead; it still was, he supposed, but now it served another purpose. A place for flickering lantern light, and shadow, for men and women to gamble. Why had Vai chosen _this_ tavern? Perhaps because it was the closest? But there were no rooms here, this place was no inn. As his glance passed the clientele, he was forced to reassess his earlier misgivings: this place was rough, with hard-bitten sailors from different lands, dockworkers and serving wenches, but it had its share of those who simply enjoyed the novelty of being on a ship. Now he thought on it, there were less sailors that he had expected, even at this hour. No doubt most wished to be away from a ship. He shrugged inwardly and leaned back.

Gareth sat opposite him, cold, hard, his flagon barely touched. His back to the rest of the floor, he did not seem to notice the slow roll of the waves under them, or the snatches of conversation that occasionally rose over the general murmur. Some way back, the barkeep, a large bodied, balding man, scrubbed a tankard with a filthy rag. The sight of the man's dirt, ale and blood stained apron should have been enough to put most off their ale, but the patrons didn't seem to care.

As the barkeep spat into the empty cup, Aurifyr felt a wave of nausea pass through him. Without outward expression, he resolved to leave his own flagon standing full. Fortunately, all it had taken was one whiff of the swill to put him off. It seemed Gareth was wise to the tavern's ways. The serving wench passed them by and Aurifyr shook his head at her wordless offer of a refill. With an inward sigh, he returned to the porthole.

So much had been said, so much had happened, and he had had little chance to reflect on any of it. It should have impressed him to meet with a duke, with the commander of the Flaming Fist. It hadn't. It bothered him more that an ogre had come for him; his foe must have spies throughout the city. Had it been magic? He shivered, knowing that the wall of the Low Lantern could be punctured at any moment, and who knew what might pierce him. Shaking the thought from him, without turning, he asked simply, "What do you know of the Iron Throne?"

It occurred to him that this was the first time he had really sat down and asked. Their organisation, the structure… how strange he could be hunting them, and know so very little. For several moments, Gareth showed no sign he had heard. Gruffly matching the elf's hushed tone, the tracker detailed, "As much as the next man."

Would he have to pull teeth? He waited.

"They moved in a few months back." Gareth finally allowed, "They're connected with Sembia. They're headed by Rieltar Anchev, and a man named 'Brunos'."

"Right, but how does Sarevok fit into all of this?" He mused aloud after several moments. Sarevok, the name from the Cloakwood mines.

"Sarevok? He's Rieltar's son."

Aurifyr stared into the white tipped waves without seeing them. The pieces were beginning to fall into place. Mulahey. Tranzig. Tranzig. Taugosz Khosann. Tazok. Davaeron. Sarevok. Rieltar. Brunos. Did Rieltar know who he was? Who had hired Tarnesh, Greywolf, Nimbul? The other assassins – in Cloakwood, and the Bounty Hunters. Did… did someone _know_? But how?

Why was never a question he asked. The question he asked was _who_? Who knew? How did they know?

His eyes clouded over and he turned from his memories. An echo of his mother's shade whispered inside his mind, _'"Balefyr", for your father. Your saviour, my murderer, he took you. He stole you for his own– …your father who held sway… seated upon the throne of murder: lord of death …That you, born of divine origins… ascend the throne of a dead god… You are nothing more than a tool. A tame demi-god…'_

The words he had read as a child rose up from long forgotten depths. Depths he thought he had forgotten, depths that he had buried. _"The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his wake he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny. Chaos shall be sown in their passage. So saith the wise Alaundo."_

A silent scream tore through him. The question he should have asked his mother's shade was not 'Who am I?', but rather, 'Who else shares this divine blood?'

 _'The Children are not equal. Expect no mercy, for you shall receive none. When you face them, and you will, protests about "fairness" will mean not a whit.'_

No… no. The true meaning of her words dawned on him with sick realisation. _'_ When _you face them'_ The ascension of murder's throne… all the progeny would content; there was but one throne, and only one lord could fill it. He understood. His heart sank.

"Elf?" Gareth's harsh voice was wary, coloured by surprise, "Someone walk over your grave?"

"You could say that." He returned with a sickly smile, feeling weaker than he had in days. Gods… no, this was their fault. What fate had he been resigned to? But who – who would know, how could they know. His eyes widened. _'Your saviour, my murderer… a tame demi-god.'_ He – he had _known_. Of course he had known! But who else had? Could his 'saviour' have betrayed him? Was there…

"This Sarevok, how old is he?" Somehow, he kept his tone steady, his face still.

The tracker hardened, then shrugged, "Don't rightly know lad. Twenties, not older. Why?"

Could it fit?

"What's he look like?"

"Large, dark, I think. Golden eyes."

"Just curious, s'all."

"Aye, well keep it to yourself." The hostility was back.

He didn't reply but turned back to the porthole. Why… he almost wept. There had to be another way… but there was not. The throne of murder would sit atop the bodies of his half-siblings. Chaos would be sown in their passage as they sought one another's blood. In the end… only one could reign. Perhaps the last two would kill each other. Perhaps he would not have to kill his siblings at all, not personally. Perhaps the others would kill each other… no, eventually, the victor would come for him. Assassins. It explained everything.

His fists clenched. This was madness. The madness of a dead god, perverse and sick in the head. And he – he had walked right into the lion's den. He had to get out of the city. He couldn't move. Gold eyes… gods, no… the dreamself…

His mind filled with the vision of the dream: a golden nimbus deep within, shining, his divine source, the reservoir of his power. Dark ichor covered it, a film of black blood. The taint. The dreamself, his dark reflection, stared back, golden eyed.

A coincidence.

 _'Is it?'_ his mind whispered.

"Take me to Sarevok."

"Hah, that's impossible lad."

Fists still clenched, he pressed them to the table, his tone lowering, eyes locking and penetrating so fiercely the tracker's own widened. He had to know. This was madness but he had to know. He was past caring over questioning his sanity; the dreamself and cold logic were proof enough of that. If Sarevok was the hunter, then… then what? They'd kill each other? If he was, then this wouldn't stop until one of them was dead. If he wasn't, he had to find the one responsible. No matter how far he fled, sooner or later, someone would find him. There would be blood.

For the first time, he accepted that he would have to kill to survive – and not just kill, murder. That was what the dreamself spoke of, the cold logic. Murder in his blood, bred into him. Death born of murder. No matter how he justified it, it amounted to murder. Self defence? He would hunt his siblings, as they hunted him. He had killed to get this far, had to kill; but what were mortals before a demi-god, a child born of divine origins? The throne of murder called to him.

He did not need the dreamself or cold logic to tell him he finally understood. In the realisation of this knowledge, he had accepted what he was. Until now, he had never believed, not truly. A sick and twisted dream, something to be at arm's length. It all came crashing down, the cold reality and the true horror of what he was, what fate intended him to do.

 _'No'_ , he thought back, rebuking it, denying his very origin, ' _I am_ Aurifyr. _'_

 _'Balefyr'_ , the dreamself mocked, echoing the name his mother's shade had chosen, ' _son of murder.'_

 _'Aurifyr!'_

 _'Balefyr, scion of the Eladrin, son of murder. God and elf, mortal and divine. Slayer of life, breaker of souls, destroyer of nations. Kin slayer, necromancer. Warlock. Assassin. Murderer. Your father's son.'_

 _A bed of corpses lay before him; corpses he had slain, corpses that had died because of him, corpses that would die for him. It stretched on, and on, a mountain of the dead. Rivers of blood pooled at its base. Atop it sat a throne of wealth; all he had taken, all striped from the dead. It was crowned by a grinning skull. His own._

He jumped to his feet, his focus shattered. Eyes bulging, he did not acknowledge Gareth's stunned stare. _Rivers of blood._

 _'Balefyr, lord of murder.'_

"Elf! What in the hells– come back here!"


	56. Baldur's Gate, part 9

He had to get out. He needed air. He had to breathe. He could not see for the visions flooding his mind. A haze overlaid with reality. Bodies, skulls, blood. Murder. The taint, the dreamself… Murder's Throne. He pushed past those in his way, without acknowledging their presence. Curses followed him, and the hurried steps of the incognito Flaming Fist tracker.

Bursting through to the upper deck, a rush of cold, sea air hit him. The salty spray in the breeze, the stench of the polluted waters below… he drew it in deeply, not caring about the scene he was causing. Staring into the dashing waves, he had the sudden impulse to hurl himself in. He began to laugh, which turned to sobs as he sank to his knees.

Gareth stared at him as if he'd gone mad. "He's cracked," the man muttered to himself, "elfs…"

Aurifyr didn't hear him.

 _"Mother!"_

He reached into himself, into the golden nimbus, as if thrusting his hand into the sun. Plunging past the filth, through the taint, the ichor, into the white beyond the gold. _"Mother!"_ he called again, _"Hear me! Answer my call!"_

 _'Balefyr,'_ Her image slowly rose before him, hidden from the mortal world. _'You summoned me, my son?'_

 _"Why? Why! This – I –_ this _is what I am?!"_ his mental voice all but screamed, projecting far more than just words, _"I have to – I have to – who are they?_ Tell _me, mother!"_

 _'Oh, my child.'_ Her ethereal eyes were calm, her words as silent as his. Her studied gaze reached for him. _'You finally accept what you are.'_

 _"The name! Give me their names!"_

 _'I cannot, my son. But you will know. When they are near, you will know. That power is within you. Blood calls out to blood, even as you call out to me. Reach out for them, and you will find them. You will sense them before they ever see you.'_

 _"Show me their faces! From the depths of your memories – reveal them! Obey me! I command you, mother!"_

 _'I cannot.'_

 _"You_ can _. Open your mind to me!"_

Silence. Their wills connected; hers stronger than he could have imagined, even in death. His was stronger. Against the might of his mind, hers began to sag, and then the image of a temple filled him. A temple hidden far from the eyes of mortals, a stronghold complex that should have been impregnable. Upon an alter stained with the blood of ages lay a woman, a human. Her face was veiled, cowled in black, even as she wore the robes of a priestess of murder. Her belly bulged, swollen. Acolytes attended her, also in grey trimmed black. All bore the symbol of their master.

The walls were dull black, and iron braziers burnt green, the incense coated copper flaring up. Its sickly sweet scent permeated the air, and gave off little heat. From the dais, the encircling acolytes waited in patient expectation. A low chant ran through them, as tremors racked the woman. At her head, an old priest waited. Across his palms lay a knife, held high, in reverence. A bone blade, fashioned from their fallen lord. Aurifyr recognised it instinctively, but how, he did not know. Its sight sent a chill down him.

The chant increased.

He could not look, but neither could he look away. With the birth pangs, the robed woman screamed, and moments later, into the awaiting acolytes' arms, her child entered the world clad in blood. The umbilical cord still attached, she lay against the stone gasping. Above her the old priest waited, his hands filling her vision.

It would have been better had she died giving birth. As her breathing became measured, she lifted her head to gaze upon her crying daughter. Her eyes became grim. "For the master," she breathed low and lustily, full of dark adoration. She reached for the babe, as she accepted the knife and the unthinkable.

The acolytes closed in.

With the cry cut off and the terrible silence, punctured only by the rising chant, the vision faded. It was replaced by the image of the Friendly Arm, erect and standing proud, then burning.

 _'You know this place?'_ Passionless surprise coloured her tone, then grew reflective, _'Here, the site of the first of my lord's children to fall.'_

He stared at her in horror.

 _'I, a mere acolyte at the time. I held the first, and watched, even as I knew my master's seed within me. You were not the second, the third, or the last.'_

Rooted to the spot, he could do nothing more than stare. She seemed to know his unvoiced question.

 _'He came to me in the night, mirroring my form. A dark reflection, a mockery of our people. I was honoured above others, meant to signal my lord's return, as the others did. With our master's death, not all obeyed. A god's will, even a dead god's, is more compelling than a geas, but some resisted.'_

 _"How could you serve him?!"_

 _'I knew the prophecies of Alaundo, just as you now do. I knew far more than I ever told my lord, than my brethren ever knew. For centuries I journeyed, seeking knowledge. I saw the fall of our kind, their might slowly sapped away. I travelled from place to place, seeking out the oldest of ruins, the most powerful of our lost empires. From, Illefarn, the Fallen Kingdom, to Ilythiir home of our dark brethren, Miyeritar a home of art and high magic, broken by Vyshaantar, our kin tearing each other apart, and Shantel Othreier. Our peoples'. Lost. All lost._

 _'Of all our homes, only Evereska remains strong. The rest are mere shades. The forest capital of Cormanthor of our peoples' empire, Cormanthyr, is dead and does not realise it. The cowards retreated to Evermeet and Evereska, and the fools only stall their end. Evermeet holds, but will not forever. The isle is doomed. Of the rest of our kind, only pockets of life remain._

 _'Suldanessellar is a mockery, born of xenophobic savages, arrogant and aloof, too blinded to recognise the value of interchange. A desperate, futile attempt from our wild kin. It will fall, in time. It cannot stand against the humans. Tethyr will reclaim and dominate its forests. Even if the humans do not overcome them, they will breed themselves out of existence. Ten generations from now, all that will remain are brothers and sisters, closest cousins. Their only choice is to mix with humans or die, and if they do, their blood will fade into obscurity. They are not to be trusted, any of them._

 _'The Llewyrr, on the Moonshae isles are fading. They are no longer dominant. They too, will fall. Only pockets of our kind remain. We have given too much, been pushed back too far. Only our twisted dark brethren hold their own, and their society cannot last. They will tear themselves apart from the inside, while the powers outside their cities converge upon them. They cannibalise themselves, and have sown the seeds of their own destruction. The tribes of Ilythiir and Miyeritar have found only temporary respite. They are closer to humans than they know.'_

He didn't know what to say. In sick fascination, he listened, the fatalist bitterness only partially veiled by her monotone. The severed elf's head, whose shade he had called, struck a cord; what had his words been? _'Your quest… is in vain. You cannot escape your doom.'_

He shivered. It had not just been him himself, but a broader meaning. At the time, he had not understood. Now…

 _'I journeyed to the lost human lands.'_ The beautiful she-elf continued, as if unaware of her son's thoughts, ' _To the ruins of ancient floating Netheril in the Anauroch Desert. From there, I visited the living: Halruua, the heirs of Netheril, hateful Thay and their accursed "Red Wizards", barbaric Rashemen ruled by berserkers and ignorant witches, all to no avail. I walked the length and breadth of the Sword Coast, journeyed to the rugged icy north._

 _'I found only ruins of our kindred, spirits and spectres. Shattered towers that once contained knowledge, life overrun by lesser beings, falling to orcs, goblins, necromantic raised undeath. Demon worshippers and worse walked our hallowed sites, desecrated our sacred halls. Groves cut down, shrines defiled and abominable rites performed over our blessed ground. All that we once had, lost. Our people, fallen._

 _'I journeyed the planes, entering the city of doors, Sigil. There, I learnt the power of belief. Of will. With a strong enough will, gods can be born. On the planes, raw determination fashions reality. The most obscure beliefs take form, rising to become solid, actuality. Truth is made, created, fashioned by belief. You do not yet understand the power of your own will. With it, you can turn back the sea, and with enough collective wills, unified as one, nothing can overcome you.'_

Here, she paused, even as he soaked in her words, unable to look away. _'The teachings of Gith, of Zerthimon, are obscure, but hold power. To know, to harness your will. That is true power.'_ The shade shook her head, _'Had you been raised mine, your mind would be the weapon, your faith your armour. You would have been so much more ready._

 _'It is not too late. I can still teach you, but you walk your own path. You always have.'_ The flicker of a smile touched her dead lips, _'The power of an individual, from division and chaos, can be as great as a unified force. If it was ever possible to tread both paths, you are its embodiment. An acolyte, perhaps, but a path you walk nevertheless._

 _'I returned from Sigil, and once more I walked the Sword Coast. I studied within the library fortress where you were raised. It was there I met he who stole you, he who slew me. He was young then, so young. Headstrong, brash, a child trying to make a difference by challenging the realm's evils. During my travels I met many like him. I thought nothing of it. Such a mistake I regret beyond words. You, my son, paid the cost for my dismissal, my folly. It has ever been our peoples' failing. We underestimate the humans. I, in all my knowledge, my wisdom, overlooked the most basic of all drives: ambition._

 _'Consumed with my studies, my search, I, who had travelled the planes, fell victim to blindness. Never once did I believe a mere youth could disrupt my plans, that he and his friends would infiltrate the very temple I myself had infiltrated, disguising myself as a keen, young novice. I, who had dedicated myself to serving a mortal god, a divinity whom I knew would fall, just as the god himself knew.'_

 _"And because of this, you served a human god?!"_

 _'I desired a return to greatness for our people, to restore the power we have lost. I desired_ you _. All this I did that you might be born, that you might triumph. That the very heavens would shake with your coming, that with your passage the realms might tremble. That you, my son, would herald a new era. From your wake… a new age, a better age. You, my hope for our people, our future. You were my last hope._

 _'My Balefyr, that I would have taught to you all the secrets I had learnt, all my knowledge, that you would be the last amongst your siblings, your mind shaped to fashion the very planes. From the earliest age, you would have learnt to master the taint, suppressing, surpassing and dominating it. The arcane as yours to command, innate and learned. With you, I would have unlocked the mysteries of your divinity, calling forth your power for you to shape as you willed. Oh, my son, I would have murdered tens of thousands to secure your birth; for you to arise, no cost was too high.'_

 _"I – get away from me! You evil, filthy – wretch! You – you should have killed me!"_

Her eyes were sad.

 _"How – how could you fall?"_

 _'He stormed the temple. I was taken unawares, at my weakest, as he shattered through my defences. I underestimated the power of my lord's will, and my own crumbled. For all my studies, for all my might, I could not overcome my master's hold. In that moment, I failed you. Your saviour's magicks were petty, mere child's play against my own, but I could not lift a finger against him. My will was no longer my own, locked against a god's… never, never did I wish you harm, my beautiful son. My beloved Balefyr, I would have died ten thousand deaths for you. When you needed me most… my body betrayed me. I am glad the human slew me; my dying gaze held thanks, my love for you, and that is why he spared you. Not even a god can destroy a mother's love for her child.'_

 _"That – that's why – why was I left alive?"_ He did not need nor want an answer. He could not reject what he had heard, even as his mind reeled. It was too much. He sought answers, sought truth, but never could he have expected this.

 _'A tool, a weapon. A tame demi-god. A scion of murder, my child. Your saviour understood nothing of your true value. You were just another one of my lord's spawn in his order's bid for power.'_ Studying his uncomprehending features, patiently she half appealed, half instructed, _'You still do not understand. Your father was a petty, wicked god, a mortal ascendant. For all that, he was still_ human _._ You _are not. He could never most past his limitations, nor tried to. He revelled in fear, in pain, in hate._

 _'In life, he was a petty thief, a murderer. Lies and deceit was the language he used, spoken with envenomed daggers. He could have been so much more, greater than even the sum of his brother and sister gods, but he chose to revel in mortality, using his divinity to depraved depths no mortal could achieve. He made himself into what he was, a god so contemptible all loathed or worshipped him. Your saviour saw only this, recognised the power of choice but never your true potential, and other mortals see less still.'_

Seeing he no longer listened, her harsh words gentled, _'What has happened to you, my child?'_

"Dead! They're – they're all dead!" Unknown to him, he spoke aloud. Those who had fallen at his hand, because of him, filled his mind's eye. "Dead! Because of me! Because I failed – they're… dead."

 _'They are but mortals, my son, and all mortals die.'_ The words were firm, but not unkind. The fatal finality was not what he wished to hear.

"They didn't have to die! Not then – not like that."

 _'Then raise them. You have the power within you. Ascend your father's throne, and rule murder's domain. Return to life those whose lives were taken away.'_

He stared.

 _'You would be a god, with a god's power.'_ Her words were knowing, coaxing, _'Even your murdered siblings. Even… your soul.'_

"Your lying," he whispered, the wind catching and smothering his words, "not even a god…"

 _'Am I? Open your eyes, Balefyr. Open your mind to the realm of possibilities – the power your father wielded was narrowed by his limitations; open your eyes, and the possibilities are boundless. To rule over murder means to rule over life.'_

He released his hold over her, and she began to fade.

 _'Steel yourself, my son. Overcome the coming storm. Master it. Master yourself.'_

It wasn't what he needed to hear. The words of comfort he was so desperate for were far from her lips. Though his conscious mind could not even begin to give form to what he craved, his question rang past his thoughts. _"Do you still love me?"_

If the shade had heard, she did not answer. She was already gone.

The sea's chill touched him and he shivered uncontrollably.

To one side, Gareth stood watching and shaking his head. Passersby who had noticed had since lost interest and moved on.

Wordlessly, the elf rose to his feet. Longing for the comforting embrace of his cowled robes and travelling cloak, he turned and strode towards the gangplank. Vai's expressionless face waited, her pale eyes fixed on him. Tousled by the wind, her fiery hair was wild, in stark contrast to the rest of her.

"Going somewhere?" She asked lowly.

Casting the query aside, he shook his head, his usual calm lost. He could scarcely think. Such ambition, such hope… it was unfathomable. Who could live up to that? That he had been born of design, of machination to bring war… restore ancient glories, no, to renew faded life. Of an entire people? It was too unreal. But he believed it. The truth in her words rang out. As much as he hated it, it made twisted sense. It was madness. How could he succeed at overcoming a dead god's will where she had failed?

But her promise… that he could return life to the murdered… that he could kill his siblings and atone by raising them from the grave? Had he not promised, once, that he would bring back his mother as his priestess? He wasn't sure he wanted to… …but how would he have reacted to witness his people slowly withdraw, pushed back, fading…?

"Walk with me, then. Gareth," A nod to the Low Lantern.

The iron-grey haired tracker returned it and returned to keep watch. As Aurifyr hesitated, without pause, Vai's stride swallowed the distance between them. "Something on your mind?"

He knew without doubt she had seen all of it. Or enough of his little display to concern her. He needed time, time to think through it. So instead, he shook his head again.

She sighed and stood beside him, watching the sea over his shoulder. Finally, she laid her hand on said shoulder, and squeezed wordlessly.

It was almost too much, but infinite gratitude rose up within him.

After countless minutes, she softly prompted, "Shall we take a walk?"

Several seconds later, he inclined his head. She took his arm.

Somehow, they ended up on the peer, overlooking the harbour. He hadn't talked; she hadn't asked. Now they both watched the waves, the darkening skies an ominous grey, clouds rolling by while the wind whipped at them. Around them, men worked and women called. People peddled their wares from every day goods to themselves. Despite this, their words were drowned by the wind. An oasis of calm centred around the pair, as if shielded from the bustle. Leaning on against the wall on her forearms, Vai's stare was as distant as his. One ankle tucked over the other, she rested, while Aurifyr lost himself in thought, back against the wall.

Hands loosely clasped, Vai glanced up at him, then smiled slightly.

He pretended not to notice. Then a guilty flush passed him.

"You saw."

"You want to tell me what that was all about?"

"You want me to?"

She looked back at the waves, seemingly indifferent. He knew better, and sighed.

"I…" This wasn't the best place, or time. Would there ever be? The words stuck in his throat. He couldn't tell her. Not what he was. "It hit me. The Friendly Arm. The slaughter…" Cursing himself for his weakness, he opted out. "The bodies…"

Slowly, she nodded. Understanding, but not quite believing, she let it go without comment. Finally, she echoed his sigh, "You've been through a lot, Aurifyr. We all have. It… hasn't been easy."

He nodded wordlessly.

She looked back up at him.

"Was there something else?"

"You tell me."

He shook his head, "I – not now. Please…?"

"All right." Then she reached up and brushed his cheek, startling him, "but you owe me."

Another nod, his eyes lost again.

"Aurifyr? You don't have to face this alone."

He offered her a tight smile, but his thoughts whispered otherwise. _"If only you knew… I am so very much alone."_

The dreamself was silent, but had it smiled, it would have been one of victory. Somehow, it knew better than to gloat, at least, in that moment of time.


	57. Baldur's Gate, part 10

Before the approach of dusk, Aurifyr had pushed his mother's visit firmly to the back of his mind, and his usual banter with Vai had resumed. Together, as they stood watching the waves and the ships, a comfortable quiet had settled over them. Both knew come nightfall, he would be risking his life again, and for now, they took simple pleasure in the ease of each other's company.

Out of nowhere, Vai brought her thoughts to bear, "He doesn't know what to make of you, Aurifyr."

"Who?"

"Scar. Right now, neither do I. How could you shame me so?"

"Shame you?"

"'Don't judge Vai harshly.'"

"Oh, that." Hiding a smile, he waved it aside airily. He recognised the undercurrent of her tone, and found himself oddly grateful for it.

"Yes, _that_. What in the Hells do you think you're playing at? Eltan is a _duke_!"

"And?"

"And? That's what you have to say? _And_?!"

"Your point?"

"My point? My _point_? Don't you realise – no, you know, I'm not even going to bother." Deliberately, she looked away. Arms folded, despite the flicker of her lips, he recognised the genuine concern and began patiently.

"Vai… I am already hunted. He could cut my head off, but unless something is done, the chances are it is only a matter of time until my neck is severed anyway."

She stared at him, eyes agate hard and furious, then turned away.

As her levity evaporated, he sighed. Thrice-cursed mouth; hadn't he learnt better by now? Why did he always say the wrong thing? "I have to prepare for tonight."

"Oh?" Her eyes glinted dangerously.

"I'm hardly going to break into their headquarters in broad _daylight_ , am I?"

"Aurifyr, if you said you would dress yourself up in bright pink and wear a sign saying 'here bounty hunters', march up to the front door and surrender yourself I would not be surprised." Despite her dryness, she hadn't forgiven him yet.

"Hmm…"

"Don't go getting any ideas, elf."

"Well, perhaps not pink…"

She rolled her eyes.

Abruptly, he laughed, "Do you truly think me so irresponsible?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do, as you have proven on more than one occasion."

"This is different."

"Is it?"

He shook his head irritably, "Are you going to help or not?"

"I should just let you get yourself into trouble. Again. I'd say it's the only way you'll learn, but you don't."

"This is about the 'joint command' isn't it?"

"My, whatever gave you _that_ idea?"

"Don't be spiteful. It's beneath you."

"And your stupid plan is going to get you killed!" She flared, her knuckles whitening as they gripped the stone.

"Not if you help, it won't."

"Fine."

He tried very hard not to sigh. Patiently, he outlined his plan, if it could be called that. Scale the fence, find a first or second story window, and affix a rope… slip inside. As far as magical wards went… he would deal with those when he came to them. He did not doubt the building was warded against scrying. "We'll be seen if we go as we are, but we need to scout the area first. I'm not going into this blind, Vai."

"Really? Now that would be a first."

"Vai!"

"Yes?" She smiled sweetly, but her eyes were anything but.

"Forget it. Just point me in the building's direction, and I'll go myself."

"Oh no you don't. I'll send Gareth with you."

"What will you do?"

"Assemble my men for when I have to save _your_ hide again."

"Is that really necessary?"

Her steady look spoke volumes.

"All right, if you feel you must."

"Aurifyr?" She hesitated, suddenly deathly serious, "You will be careful, won't you?"

"Always."

She nodded simply and walked away. His eyes followed her for a few seconds, and over her shoulder, she invited, "Coming?"

His smile warmed from the curl of his mouth to his eyes. This heist was insanity, but for some reason, he felt better for it by far.

As night fell, he put his 'plan' into action.


	58. Baldur's Gate, part 11

The spiked iron fence was as tall as most of the warehouse buildings by the docks. From this angle, the massive tower seemed to rise for a quarter of a mile into the sky. It didn't, of course, but it was one of the tallest buildings he had ever seen. With the low hung cloud, he could not even see the top, but he could make out the flickering lights near the zenith. It would take more than one night to search this. This, however, might be the only chance he got. What assassins lurked in this fortified nest? Perhaps he should have tried to find out the guard shifts, which mercenaries were employed…

The makeshift grappling hook sailed over the broad spikes, and as it caught, he gave it a firm tug and nodded to himself. With a silent grin, he began to scale the fence.


	59. Infiltrating the Iron Throne, part 1

_Infiltrating the Iron Throne_

His feet landed soundlessly on the cobblestones. The hemp stuffed sack sat neatly between the spikes for when the time came to return, and with the fence scale, the first hurdle was dealt with. Now the real challenge began.

The buttresses alone stood taller than most buildings. To his irritation, the first, second and third story windows were barred. Fortunately, the lights were out in every window except the top floor. That didn't discount the possibility of guards, however. Frowning, he scanned the compound and carefully inched his way through cloud covering shadow to the nearest buttress. The moon shone through broken patches, and being caught under its gaze was not highest on his list of priorities.

As the night's chill caught his cheek, he began to wonder if he had brought enough rope, and questioned the wisdom of this. Was he really going to be able to climb this? Higher than he'd ever climbed before?

He thought of the walled fortress library he once called home. At night, he had often slipped out and climbed to the roof of the keep. The wave battered cliffs the bastion was seated upon he had also scaled, carefully making his way to the beaches below. Closing his eyes, he banished the thought. Weighed down by rope, hands bound in cloth, and fingers chalked he set palm to stone. It was cold, as he expected. The chalk had been dyed black, and as he felt for pits, one handhold became another, and his soft leather boot raised.

It was almost routine, a steady rhythm. Search, look with his hands, feeling his way. One foot, one hand, then the other, inching his way up, creeping along. His palms felt slick under the tension, but he closed his mind to all but his task, and his body took over. Up, up, and up, never looking down, steadily pressing forwards, as if sliding up the buttress.

He lost track of time, but after passing the first floor, he found the rimmed ledge – if such a sheer outcrop could be called that – and tentatively moved across, until he was at the barred window. There, between the corner of the window and the wall, he wedged himself, legs spread, and loosed and tied a coil of rope to the bars. The rest of the rope unfurled to the flagstones. With a firm yank, he tested the knot, and satisfied, he examined the bars. Too thin for him to slip through. Were he a cockroach…

Briefly, he considered using magic on the bars, or a saw, or even pulling them off with the rope from the ground. Just as quickly, he dismissed each idea. There had to be a better way. Shaking his head, he shimmied up to the second floor, utilising all of his elfin grace and nimbly, warily, rose higher. More than one stone was loose, and the mortar threatened to give way with dire consequences. Should a rock shatter from this height… But Aurifyr was experienced enough to ignore the sudden panic of a loose brick, even from this lofty distance. When his boot slid, his body did not lock up as reflexes demanded; tense, certainly, but with controlled, measured breathes, he forced himself to relax, and pushed on.

Rope two he unwound from his shoulder, and tied to the second story window bar, as he had at the first, and again at the third. He only had one stretch of rope left. The fourth floor awaited.


	60. Infiltrating the Iron Throne, part 2

It wasn't what he expected. Three windows across, and he finally found an open one. He could have smashed the glass of the first, reached in and unlocked it, but he had caught sight of the open one. He tried not to focus on the dizzying height, or how a slip would cost him his life. The buffeting wind did not help either. Foolishly, he risked a glance down. Far below, the flickering lights of the city called to him, inviting him to plummet… shaking it off, he slipped inside. The first thing that struck him was a mouthful of curtain. Barely containing his spluttering, he spat it out, caught in its crimson folds. For a split moment, panic ruled him; the curtain was pushing him back! Another inch – his hands gripped the wall and frame, knuckles whitening. He wrested it away, and the wind dropped. Slumping against the cold, solid stone, he released a long breath. That had been too close. The flash of panic faded, the pounding blood slowing. Closing his eyes, he sank, knees drawn up to his chin. Slowly, he looked around.

It was so open. There were what he presumed to be offices to the back, but fully a quarter of the floor was without division. While the thick, heavy curtain brushed aside him, he stared. What struck him first was the glistening lights, dim torchlight reflected on polished marble. Green, seemingly blue in spots, the entire floor was clad in tiles. Rivalling a bronze mirror's sheen, his own fuzzy reflection stared back at him. Despite the torches, a permanent chill held the room, only slightly less cold than the night.

A giant statue, almost as high as the roof, chiselled in stone, clad in iron, dominated the rear wall between the staircases. It wore a visor over its helm and bore a shield in one hand, sword in the other. How anyone had managed to haul such a heavy piece in was beyond his ken.

His gaze turned as he absorbed the rest of the chamber. The walls were dressed with iron. The stuff was everywhere. Arches and columns supported the weight of the story above, and tapestries and statues lined the place. Purple carpets and red divans littered the area, and the two far corners boasted twin massive staircases. Their size was a match for many peasant hovels.

He felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. How was anyone meant to investigate this place? Shakily, he rose, and traced his way along the windows. When he reached the one he had scaled, he quickly and jerkily unlocked it, cursing under his breath as the handle resisted. With a sharp tug, he found it jammed, and wished he had skill enough to pick the damn thing. After a silent oath, he left it, and crept noiselessly towards the backrooms.


	61. Infiltrating the Iron Throne, part 3

Offices were what he expected. What he found was something else. A long passageway, with several doors, some open, some closed, centred across the large statue. It was there he begun his search. On his right, a large private dining hall greeted him, sealed off from the rest of the building. The table was finest wood, polished as much as the tiles, and the candelabra was exquisite. Directly across was a library, and despite his better judgement, he was drawn to it. Bathed in the glow of guttering candles, from floor to ceiling, shelves filled every wall. Books of every size bulged from bowed shelves. Not a speck of dust touched any of the tomes, and a wealth of knowledge worth more than the room's weight in gold stared back at him. In the centre of the chamber, a pedestal stood, its open book beckoning him, and beside it, a desk. There were no windows, nothing to denote the passage of time, only the veil of scented smoke.

Aurifyr shook his head as he ran his gaze past several of the carefully catalogued series. His eyes narrowed as he hit upon what he looked for and feared. A complete copy of the prophecies of Alaundo. Tomes on the Times of Trouble. It was not definitive proof, but it confirmed his dread. The leather bound volumes all showed signs of heavy use. It took all his willpower not to draw one from the shelf.

Something was bothering him. A growing feeling in the back of his mind. If there were torches, where was everyone? He had not seen a single soul. After a quick check, he found the candle stubs still warm, their wicks smoke lingering. The stink of incense hung low. What perverse rituals had been performed here?

As he crossed the unadorned floor, he froze; there were sounds coming from the other side of the wall. With a jolt, he realised what the rhythmic thudding was, and disgust held his features. Cursing himself for a fool, he allowed it only made sense. The question of what he did next plagued him.

A slow, build of hate suffused his being, and the irrational urge to fire this treasure took him. He pushed it aside; he was here to scout, not as a petty arsonist. Eltan had not employed him for this. Yet the familiarity of it tore at him, and a deep, slow pang of longing tore at him. He might have been home. Shaking his head, he continued his inspection. What Eltan wanted wasn't here, but perhaps he might shed some light on who the architect of the assassins stalking him were. A long shot, and not one he expected answer, but it did not hurt to look. Very much aware that time was fleeting, he examined the books speedily. Drawn to the pedestal, a copy of ' _The Dead Three_ ' lay open. Passages were underlined in crimson – passages familiar to him. Resolutely, he turned his back on it.

On one shelf stood exercise books, filled with notes. Selecting one off the shelf, his eyes grew hate-filled. Sections of Alaundo's prophecies copied out in a neat, yet blocky hand, annotated with thoughts, possible meanings and locations. In the same scholarly script as the prophecies, the language of scholars was one he was familiar with; it should not surprise him that one within the Iron Throne knew it, but it shook him.

As he poured through the other thick tomes, he found maps of the Lord of Murder's temples, information on priests. Why was this not locked up? Flicking through further pages, fury took him. A list of names – and the topmost had a line through. Several more had notes beside them, detailing place, occupation, and more. Some had scribbles tracing them to the known priesthood, and temples. The complex musings had been abandoned on several, and 'deceased' denoted a few entries.

It might have been the ravings of a madman, but Aurifyr understood them perfectly. With sick dread, he turned the page. Copied from the previous workings, a neater list lay. One name, a place, stood out, circled and underlined twice: _Saradush_. Why a city in Tethyr was outlined he did not know. Maps of the Sword Coast, painstakingly copied, offered little insight. Major towns were listed, such as Beregost and Nashkel, and strategic points, such as a valley in the Cloudpeak Mountains, and notes detailing their strengths. Lists upon lists, numbers, and plans. Invasion plans. None of them made any sense, only that the lines all pointed towards Saradush. Linked in were various verses of the prophecy, an attempt to tie all together.

From his own knowledge, he understood the author's interpretation. It was mad; he was no military tactician, only a scholar, and none of the histories he read pronounced this campaign as anything other than chaos by comparison. Rubbing his temples, he could not see any other objective than to wreak as much havoc and death as possible as the author cut a path to this seemingly insignificant town.

Expensive parchment could not begin to count the cost of the words scribed within. Sickened by what he read, he turned; there could be no doubt now. One of his 'brothers' occupied this place. No woman's hand he ever read had ever been so. The script had been almost runic, cutting into the page without elegance, only sharpness. Here, in the very heart of the Iron Throne, he had found the first of his true foes. This knowledge was invaluable, but it was a death sentence. Anyone found caught with it would almost certainly be put to the sword by anyone. Assuming they could read. Who would not recognise its meaning?

If he fired the Throne, Eltan would almost certainly know it was him. Yet he had the chance to strike a grievous blow! Far more grievous than the one at Cloakwood's mines. He hesitated. There could be other, hidden works. No doubt more important, incriminating letters had been secured within vaults and strongboxes. All he had was the works in front of him: a decade's worth of study, at least. As he turned to the last page, he saw his dead sire's symbol etched. A grinning skull, surmounted on a round shield, orbited by a ring of tears.

He froze; the thudding had stopped and he had not noticed. Footsteps, near silent, echoed off the marble floor outside the door. Hastily, he stuffed the tome back, and dropped to a crouch, eyes darting every way. There was nowhere to hide.

Then he saw him. Under a sheen of sweat, seasoned muscles rippled, iron hard, their tone bronzed mocha. In an open gown, a bald giant of a man towered in the doorway, naked but for the thin linen. Marred by scars and littered by bruises, and love-bites, his smooth skin was young. Mixed in with his masculine scent was a delicate perfume, a woman's fragrance. It was distinctive enough that his finely tuned elfin senses would know it if he caught its whiff again. He took in his adversary.

A human, near a staggering seven feet, broad shouldered, within his twenties. There was a discernable aura about the man, a raw strength, a barely tamed savagery, yet each movement betrayed a years of masterful control. A warrior forged in fire, terrible to behold, and all this revealed in a single studied stare. There was nothing weak about him, his nudity more encasing than the strongest platemail. Chillingly, his eyes were golden. Sarevok.

In the dull hue, the instant realisation that he had not been seen offered him a split second's advantage. The rasp of drawn steel would have been heard, and he did not dare whisper the arcane words that would have concealed him.

Nothing about the man showed his previous exertion; he seemed tireless. He carried no light, and his golden gaze was steady. Like the dreamself, it glowed. Hatred rose up in the elf's breast. From the pit of his inmost being, a dark cry forced its way into his waking mind, clouding his vision in a haze of crimson. Achev's son frowned, as if sensing the shift in the air. Aurifyr tensed.

"Sarevok," a lilting, lusty voice called, "come back to bed."

The giant did not answer, but continued to sweep the chamber, then a mirthless chuckle growled in his throat and he turned.

Here was his chance.

His mother had been right: he recognised his dead sire's taint upon the man. He could _feel_ his blood calling out, reaching, demanding his brother's. Would he allow him to escape? The cold logic and dreamself were silent, but he could feel their mocking. He could feel the cry of murder in his heart. Angrily, he shook it aside, and as Sarevok's footsteps faded, retreating to his bedchamber, the elf fled.


	62. Infiltrating the Iron Throne, part 4

Outside, Gareth was waiting for him. The night's chill was a slap in the face, and the rope's descent had done little to still his nerves.

"Well?" the iron-haired tracker demanded.

Aurifyr shook his head, ignoring the man's disgust. He had not taken the rope with him, only the sack.

The lawman jerked his head towards the east, as if to indicate dawn's arrival. There was no need; the elf had already seen the ever lightening grey.

Without comment, he headed into what remained of the night, his eyes picking out every shadow of the cobblestoned street. It was almost a disappointment when they reached the inn without incident. His sword-arm itched to blood steel.


	63. Infiltrating the Iron Throne, part 5

"You were gone for hours." Vai greeted him once they were alone, "Find anything?"

"No… it was too large." Aurifyr sighed, not needing to feign exhaustion. Only now had his pounding pulse begun to subside, replaced by a heavy weariness. Slumping down on a rickety stool, his headshake was curt, and not directed at her, "I could not cover one floor."

"So you learnt nothing?" Her pale eyes were sharp, appraising, and yet sympathetically, she reached over and squeezed his shoulder. Pacing along the window, she paused and turned, jerking her thumb at the bed, "Rest, Aurifyr. We can discuss this later."

Tiredly, he nodded, still too shaken to offer any argument. Sarevok… his nemesis, so close. Instead of adhering to murder's call, he had fled. A single thrust, his sword piercing through his 'brother's' breast, and that of his lover, and then he could have been gone, a shadow, a shade. He could have left Baldur's Gate behind forever. Instead… instead… why? What had stopped him? What had possessed him? Fear? No… not fear. Pragmatism. He had wasted an opportunity, the likes of which he might never have again, and for what? To avoid the wrath of the Iron Throne? To avoid the guilt Eltan would lay upon him?

…Vai.

"Aurifyr? Are you all right?" Concern coloured her, her gaze sharp as ever, directed wholly onto him. "You look like you've seen a ghost. What happened up there?"

"I…" Shaking it away, he lifted his head, "I just – it's too big, Vai. I don't know where to even begin."

She did not voice her disbelief, but he knew it was there. Her hand brushed his cheek, cupping his jaw, "You did what you could. No one expected you to find evidence in a single night. Now, get some rest."

Once more, he nodded. Throat suddenly dry, a wave of hesitation washed over him as she turned to the door. "Vai…"

"Yes Aurifyr?"

"You'll be here… won't you?"

"I'm across the hall." An unspoken question lurked under her slightly raised brow.

"I…" He nodded again, "Good night, Vai."

"Good night, Aurifyr." As her hand turned the doorknob, she glanced back and added, "There are out of uniform members of the Fist below; there'll be no more ogre visits." She smiled lightly, "And besides, I have to bathe. I'll check in on you later." A sharp incline of her head; he returned it, and his eyes guilty flickered towards the barred window.

"You're safer here than in the Fist's stronghold," Her steady tone reassured him far more than her previous half smile, "there are guards outside your door and down the hall. Should there be a fire, there is more than one way out. No one knows you're here any more than they know I am. Unless you'd rather worry yourself, I suggest you sleep." A rare fond light passed her, "If you're afraid of nightmares, I might even tuck you in."

"Uh… that's not necessary."

She chuckled and stepped outside. His stare followed her. Then shaking his head, he stripped out of his black and climbed into bed without further thought. The soft linen welcomed him and darkness overtook his waking mind. His last thought was why Vai hadn't commented on his fop's blue; she must have been through his bags while he was out…


	64. Infiltrating the Iron Throne, part 6

Daylight greeted him, harsh sunlight through the shutters. The angle of the brilliant sphere was high, piercing through the clustered buildings, narrow streets and thatched shadows. He awoke with a groan; how could he have such a splitting headache? It just wasn't right.

A firm hand shook his shoulder, and through sleep encrusted eyes, he stared up at its fiery-haired owner.

"I thought you would sleep all day," Vai commented wryly, her pale eyes dancing. "Up, elf. You've had more than your four hours. I've to report our progress to Scar. I intend to check our sources; perhaps something has come out. If not, we'll keep putting out feelers."

A most zombie-like moan emerged from his lips and he covered his face with his arm.

"This is what you get for bragging about your kind's resting cycles." Ruthlessly, she did not let up, but in her most callous, offhand tone gesticulated, "'Elfkin require but a quarter of the sun's arc across the skies'."

"I never said that!" He groaned again and rolled over.

"Uh huh." She rose, the suddenly lack of her mailed weight causing the bed to rise abruptly, "Try to make yourself decent, elf. We're in civilisation now. I'll be back before dusk."

"Why are you tormenting me? Shouldn't I rest–"

"And give you the incentive to sleep in? I thought you'd know better; such things breed bad habits." Her arch tone did little to reassure him, and then she graced him with a beatific and somehow benign smile. "Up. It'll do you good to bathe and eat a proper meal. You can rest-up later."

"What time is it?"

"Gone noon."

He moaned.

"I'll have Gareth check in on you." With that, she was gone. Further protest was useless. Were all women so heartless?


	65. Infiltrating the Iron Throne, part 7

An hour later saw the last of the tepid water dripping from his hair, and the foppish blue clinging to his slender form. The lopsided feathered hat capped the ridiculous image, while the split hose and calf-clinging stockings ended in pointy shoes. Aurifyr could barely look at himself in the mirror. The sight was not enough to raise a smirk from the tracker, but the looks levelled at his back as he made his way to the bar were concealed behind snickers and scorn. If any recognised him, they did not show it, but only saw a lily soft skinned fool who never worked a day in his life.

Unable to take the undercover Fist's mockery any more, he fingered the showpiece rapier, taking his only solace in its tempered edge, if indeed, the smith had been truthful. It _seemed_ genuine, but it was not his chosen blade. Shaking his head, he growled, "I'm out for a walk. Attend me, my manservant."

The only other consolation was Gareth had assumed, under Vai's instruction, no doubt, the garb of a burly manservant. The brass knuckles the man hid under dark leather gloves did not fill him with confidence, especially not having the tracker at his back. He could almost feel the thinly cloaked malevolence and imagine the pounding of brass-covered fist pounding into his flesh. It took all he had not to shiver.

Outside, the stink of the city greeted him, and the distinctive aroma of the docks permeated. Now, though, he had an excuse to waft a perfumed, silken kerchief in front of his nose, though it did little to disguise the stench and did terrible damage to his already crippled self-esteem. His self image died and crawled into a hole with each step. Bizarrely, no one paid any attention to him. He was quite, quite invisible.

The only looks he did receive were those of contempt mixed with envy, and a certain awe, and later a certain curiosity from those of Gareth's assumed rank. Who was this noble? Nobles did not frequent the docks! Except in disguise… or to board their ships. With a characteristic sneer that matched the most arrogant aristocrat, he preened down his nose. He had seen enough of nobles at home to know, and with that flash thought, buried the sudden pang of homesickness. Though he in no way missed the nobles. It worked. The stares subsided, at least dropping to more convert gazes. It was amazing what a steady fix on another's eyes could do when one was attired in velvet. Inside, he felt sickened, and moved on.

As they pair moved along the shoreline's wharf, Aurifyr realised what was missing, and commented loudly in a nasal tone, "This will never do, Burtrude. None of these are acceptable! Why, I can't believe you dragged me down here to inspect such… rubbish. Mumsy will be most upset if I cannot find passage to the Moonshae Isles for her summer cruise! I don't know why I retain your services; it's almost as if you _enjoy_ wasting my time."

He sniffed, loudly and critically. Behind him, Gareth stiffened, and a quick glance betrayed the tracker's struggle to contain his anger. Baiting the man further, for the necessary show of the crowd, as if unaware of just how insulting he sounded, the elf continued, "What do I pay you for? All you do is loaf around! Why, look at these! There isn't even _gilding_ , and look at that! The paint is all chipped and faded! And oh my! What vulgarity! What _is_ that figurehead meant to be? A bloated ogress? No, no, no. This will simply not _do_!"

Dramatically, he sighed without needing to flourish his short cloak; the sea breeze did that for him, "So hard to find good help these days. Well, don't just dawdle man! I have an important appointment to keep! You know mumsy will be very annoyed if I am late for that lord's daughter, and so will I! Oh, you louts are all the same; don't sulk, Burty dear."

If hate rose like heat, the fuming lawman would scorch the sea to desert. The worst part of it was Aurifyr clearly recalled visiting nobles who spoke like that, and they had been fully grown men right into their third decade. Rather than annoy his companion further, the elf haughtily adopted a lilting gait, and with exaggerated swagger, half strode, half strutted past the line of warehouses.

Perhaps, Aurifyr thought inwardly as a flash of inspiration struck, it was time to adopt another tact. If he could gain entry to the Iron Throne legitimately, and arrange an appointment, posing as a bored aristocrat, 'Burty' as his major-domo… a spoilt, rich brat complaining because his latest iron toy broke. But what? What would interest such a character? His eyes rolled skywards. _"Oh musmy, my new armour broke! It was so stinky, but I needed it for the ball!"_

No, that would never do. He would not care his guards' swords chipped and shattered, nor would full plate be fashionable… except perhaps for the upcoming war? But then, how could this fop know that? Outside of Sarevok and potentially his closest confidants, only Aurifyr knew of the ward of Anchev's future warmongering. Unless… he had decided to coat his carriage in iron. Since iron kept breaking, it was such a _prized_ and _expensive_ resource, and that made it _fashionable_. That sort of absurd whim was just the sort of idiocy that a merchant cartel might believe – and just the sort of madness a pampered fop might indulge in. Finally a plan! A working plan.

It was inspired. It had to work. So many things could go wrong.


	66. Infiltrating the Iron Throne, part 8

It was the frenzied, panicked call of fleeing workmen and their supervisor that disrupted the plan. "Basilisk! There's a basilisk loose in the warehouse! Stay back!" At a dead run, one of the workers had the decency to warn the passersby and chaos ensured. In the fleeing rush, an absurd, yet staggeringly simple idea took hold. "Wait here," he hissed to Gareth through the screams, "or wait for me near the pier."

Before the tracker could reply, the elf slipped through the charging mass and into the warehouse. A basilisk, eh? The beginnings of a smile etched his lips.

The warehouse was musky, dark and reeked of fish. The warehouse foreman ran past swearing and fearful, beads of sweat dripping down his burly arms and face.

Aurifyr took pains not to be seen. As he stood behind a crate the height of three men, and the width of eight, a low, feral roar emerged from the rear of the warehouse. The distinctive patter of its eight feet against the warehouse floorboards backed up the sound. A basilisk wasn't intelligent like a medusa was, but it had a bestial cunning of its own. Risking a glance, Aurifyr leaned around a corner, and focused his elfin sight towards the warehouse rear. Crates blocked the way. Carefully, the elf drew his sword. At this range, he doubted the beast could turn him to stone, but as he grew closer…

He had read once that a basilisk's bite was poison, but he could not be sure, as other contradicting sources had named it a fallacy. The same texts had spoken of sirines, goblins and other demi-humans and monsters. In any event, all the texts agreed on one thing: the spine-armour plated lizard could turn its prey to stone, and to beware its deadly gaze. One source commented an adult basilisk reached six foot in length, not including its tail, and occasionally, boasted a small horn atop the nose.

Aurifyr crept forward, skirting around the side of the warehouse. From one crate to another, he darted, the awareness of danger increasing with each step. If their eyes locked, it would be all over… no doubt the beast had caught his scent by now. Basilisks preferred to lie in wait, the same text had said. Most were brown in colour with a yellow underbelly, but shades varied. Another step, another crate skirted. He froze; he could hear its breathing. He was close. Holding up the blade, he angled it and caught a glimpse of a statue. Men, once flesh, now stone. A hissing, a skittering. The beast scrambled. Then it struck him; the creature was above him, climbing crates–

He threw himself aside, shielding his eyes, and he heard hate hiss. In this reek of fish, he could not pick out the basilisk's scent. Instinct ruled him, not fear. Split-second hesitation meant the difference between life and death, trapped in stone forever, yet he felt none of it. His body moved of its own accord, trained reflex complementing natural, muscles remembering past experience and flowing seamlessly. All the while, a disconnected objectivity held him, as though observing from outside himself. Thoughts ticked over, in detached observation. It might have been a textbook exercise. Some tomes spoke of magic, of charming another, and others whispered of darker, stronger domination over others, enslaving and binding their will. Nothing described the evil he had.

No sooner than his forearm broke his fall, he rolled aside, and then he saw the monster. It was as big as the texts had suggested, but up close it seemed so much larger. Its tail lashed, and he could _feel_ its hate radiating. He had no idea if his plan would work or not, and it was his life if it failed, but the divine fury within him arose, screaming hatred. That a mere beast would dare try to take _his_ life, a son of murder–

Clamping down on such arrogant thoughts, he jumped to his right as the basilisk launched itself at him, its maws ugly and huge. It was reddish brown, and its massive bulk crushed in a crate. As it moved to turn, ripping itself free, the elf darted back, sword in hand. It happened in a flash, a blur. As the creature pulled itself loose, he reached inside of himself, to his core, the source of his essence – and threw it forth, even as their eyes met. Golden, beady hateful eyes locked with his own. Everything stopped, time no longer containing meaning. An eternity followed, the surge of his power, the might of his will.

He could not move. Held in place by a primal force, his limbs were lead, lost to the touch. The primitive mind of the basilisk screeched, reeling under his own. The connection pushed against its natural barriers.

Then it was over.


	67. Infiltrating the Iron Throne, part 9

With a sudden screech, the beast's mind broke. Its thoughts held captive, its defences fell. Suddenly, he could move, and the spell shattered. He could feel the basilisk breathing, see inside its mind, see through its eyes. He could see himself, not through his own eyes, but through its, and what it saw was not what a man saw. A inky shadow, an outline, the figure of an elf, but not recognising it was elfin. There were no labels, no concepts, only the distinction between predator and prey, basilisk and foe. It saw what men did not. Its blood was cold, reptilian. Then he felt its fear.

He searched its memories, pouring through its primitive images. It remembered a barren wasteland, where the sun scorched the plains, of hunting birds and beasts, of mating with one of its own. Then it had been set upon; it had struggled, but could not overcome the hunters. Its head had been bound, muzzled with a cord, a bag. It did not understand the darkness it had been plunged into, but Aurifyr recognised what the objects it saw were. A growing hatred for its captors filled it. Many days in darkness, in a rolling space. A ship at sea, though it did not understand such things. It knew only the change in temperature. It was hungry, so hungry. It did not understand the concept of 'missing', only a sense of loss it did not comprehend. As Aurifyr's thoughts joined with it, its awareness altered, warm-blooded concepts and values flooding it.

With a creak, its mind gave way, broken and bound to 'the stronger', to him. As Natasha, it was enslaved. But unlike her, the basilisk was not sentient. Inside its thoughts, the elf probed, his own eyes closing. With thoughts, he constructed a feeling, an image. A pack – no, a colony. Ghostly hands reached and laid themselves on the creatures fractured mind. There, the elf poured in his will, shaping and remoulding the creature, restoring what was lost, repairing the damage and altering the beast's very nature. Slowly, he pulled back, and when the link faded, now a muted thread in the back of his own mind, exhaustion took hold of him.

Cold, reptilian golden eyes stared at him. There was no resistance, no hate, no turning to stone, only placidness. Reaching in, he caressed the bond with an ethereal finger, and the beast waited. He could feel it flinch within. He had left it with some will; it was not entirely empty. Its mind had been different, so different, almost alien, to Natasha's. It had not been as hard as he thought; easier, in some ways, and not in others. But he was alive, and this – this thing – a living construct? No, it was more than that. In its mind, he planted fundamental concepts, changing its core instincts. Predator, prey, friend, foe. He reclassified, re-catalogued those it could hunt.

In the waking world, he held out his hand. The basilisk waddled over to him, and he laid his cupped palm over its maws. Then without pause, his long-legged stride carried him to the crate the beast had broken free from, even as he examined the dockyard warehouse workers encased in stone. The basilisk followed in obedient silence. He had not had to call him.

One look explained everything. Smuggling. Exotic beasts, no doubt for some fool noble's menagerie or illegal pit fight. Disgust filled him, and he pity filled him. It was not this poor critter's fault. Pity was a concept the basilisk did not understand, and through the bond, he felt the beast's confusion. Almost to himself, he murmured, "It's all right. You'll be…"

The beast would never be free, any more than Natasha could have been, or Stephen. They were bound to him irrevocably. A thought so twisted it chilled him struck. He had used his blood to summon his mother, he had bound both Natasha and Stephen to him more completely than any spell. He used no words, no chanting, no sprinkling of exotic augmentations, only the power of his will. Could he call back Natasha's spirit? Broken as she was. An even colder thought held him. Another source of answers, _the_ source of answers. With his blood, he had called his mother, his dark power raising her spirit up from death's depths… but she was only one half.

There was another. Only one left to summon, and that he did not dare. His sire.

He shivered. Using his essence to call up the perished lord of murder? His mother's words rang clearly, _'A god's will is more compelling than a gaes, child. Even a dead god.'_

Without further thought, he left the statues. It never crossed his mind that he might use the basilisk to break its gaze, to release the captives. It never occurred that they may have only been doing their jobs. There was magic enough to free them, and legend suggested that when a basilisk perished, its victims reverted back to flesh. It was only later such thoughts touched him, and with them, deep regret. Still, the questions that would have been raised… he did not need to raise his profile. He was already marked; heroics would not avail him any.

He slipped out as silently and as unseen as he had entered, the only alteration being his use of the 'backdoor'. The basilisk crashed through the wooden wall, and he ducked under it. Not a moment too soon, for a short time later, a braying mob entered the warehouse, ready to avenge their fallen. The curses that the basilisk was loose soon filled the streets, and terror spread like wildfire. Soon the docks district was deserted.

In the back alleys, formed by the warehouse walls, Aurifyr waited in shadow. The basilisk went ahead, and screaming urchins and other beggars fled. The elf strode behind. Having a basilisk as a pet _did_ have some perks. Too bad he had not taken it shopping: how to clear a crowd in seconds…

* * *

 **A/N: And this is where the fic originally cuts short. However, I will probably/may continue it as I still have the notes for what I had planned. I just never got around to it. So there you have it, my first ever fic. Hope you found it enjoyable!**

 **-LttP. 12/12/18.**


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